


So You Want To Be An Artist

by Callistemon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Art, Art sharks, Artists, Daredevil post-season 2, Depression, Drawing, First Time, Fix-It, Forgery, Friendship, Gen, Grudge, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Met Museum, Museums, New York, Not just mimetic art, Outsider Art, Post-Season/Series 02, Reconciliation, Sculpture, Sound Art, installation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callistemon/pseuds/Callistemon
Summary: Matt removed his hands in a triumphant gesture. "There! What do you think?"“It looks like a 3D print. How in earth did you do that?", Karen asked in awe."You just saw how," he said, confused."Yes, but how do you make it look so real? I mean, not even someone who can see could do that.""Maybe that's my advantage," he mused. "Or maybe it's the model."Karen groaned. "You have the worst lines."****Nelson & Murdock has closed, Elektra is dead, and Matt's confession to Karen didn't quite go according to plan. Jobless and at a loose end, Matt starts making art after a trip to The Metropolitan Museum of Art (and he's a total savant, of course). Matt, Foggy and Karen soon come to believe that the art world has as many sharks as Landman and Zack.





	1. One new message from Karen

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place immediately after Daredevil season 2. It tries to resolve some of the loose ends from season 2: Matt's confession to Karen, Foggy and Matt's relationship, the aftermath of Elektra's death etc., and speculate (creatively) as to how Matt could become aware of his fellow Defenders ahead of the upcoming Defenders series.

Matt’s phone gave a short beep.

He froze. The underlying anxiety following his confession to Karen and the break up of Nelson & Murdock seemed to peak every time he got any kind of phone communication. It’d been two weeks since they met at their former office and he’d revealed that he, Matthew Murdock, moonlighted as Daredevil. He’d not heard from her since.

Taking a deep breath to try and overcome the unwelcome lump in his chest, he swiped the phone’s screen.

_“One new message from Karen,_ ” Matt’s phone announced.

“ _Hey Matt, Can we talk? Karen”_

No indication of tone or subject of the requested talk. He knew he shouldn’t be afraid of such a discussion. He was the ‘man without fear’ for goodness sake. Yet interpersonal communication and honesty were definitely not his strong suit, particularly at the level Karen always seemed to demand.

It’s not as if the confession had gone badly. It was just… odd.

* * *

 

Two weeks earlier, Electra’s death had jolted him out of the spell of giddy excitement and recklessness that she invariably inspired. She’d always brought out Matt’s more hedonistic side. During the short time she’d been back in New York, he’d managed to terminate his business, alienate his best friend and former business partner, and destroy his brief relationship with Karen – the woman he deeply loved and cared for. He’d repeatedly lied to both Foggy and Karen, ruining any kind of trust between them. And now he was alone.

Matt knew he didn’t _need_ to tell Karen about Daredevil, particularly as he wasn’t even sure if she’d ever talk to him again as it was, but there was something nagging at him. The morning of Electra’s funeral – an unofficial affair that was attended by only Matt and Stick - he woke up thinking of that moment in the warehouse the night before when he and Karen had locked eyes. He thought he’d caught a connection, a glance of recognition even. He assumed that it was due to Karen’s obsession with Daredevil – the man who had saved her from the Union Allied assassin, but there was a part of him that wished she knew about his dual identity. It was the secret that ultimately destroyed their relationship, and he knew that they had no hope for a future as long as she only knew him as Matthew Murdock.

So Matt decided to spill the beans, requesting a meeting at their now vacated Murdock & Nelson office – a place that he felt represented the end of a period of upheaval, secrets, lies, isolation and failure. From there they could start anew.

As he entered office on that fateful day, he tossed his cane onto a chair at the door, deliberately hinting at his true abilities. There was no fooling around with Karen, so after pulling out his mask he simply stated, “I’m Daredevil”.

After a lengthy silence, she quietly replied, “I know.” But before Matt could interrogate her, she muttered a quick “I’ve gotta go” before bowing her head and rushing out the door.

He hesitated, wanting to grab her and demand answers. After all, Karen was always the one to talk things out. Unlike Matt, she rarely shied away from verbal confrontation. She was the one who demanded answers regarding his absences from work and the near constant presence of cuts and bruises. When Matt and Foggy had stopped talking, she’d forced a reconciliation between her two bosses. She’d interrogated everyone from Fisk’s mother to the Punisher, knowing full well the potentially dangerous consequences. It was therefore entirely out of character for Karen to dash off like that. But Matt let her leave, recognising that aggression wasn’t going to resolve this particular problem.

While Matt was initially relieved at the brevity of the event, it quickly turned to panic as he considered Karen’s own confession. How long had she known? How did she know? Did Foggy tell her? Had she told anyone else? As a reporter for _The New York Bulletin_ she had the scoop of the century. Was her silence to be trusted, or was she gathering research for a story? He trusted her enough to share his secret, but that was on his own terms. He was supposed to be the one in control.

Without further thought he called Foggy, who seemed only moderately surprised at Karen’s deduction.

“You know how she gets when she suspects something is awry”, he pointed out. “Think about how many secrets she uncovered during her time at Nelson & Murdock. She uncovered the murder of Fisk’s father, the failed sting in Central Park, the identity of the shooter at the DA’s office, amongst other things. Imagine what else she’s not telling us”.

“It doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable about the situation. What if she tells someone?”

“Well tell her not to”, he snapped back.

Matt grunted. “It’s not that simple, Foggy. She ran out. She obviously doesn’t want to talk to me. And I don’t want to piss her off in this state.” 

“Don’t then”, Foggy replied, deliberately unhelpful. 

Foggy was understandably still cross at Matt over the Punisher case, his lies about Electra, his lack of reliability, his absolute disregard towards their professional reputation, and the ultimate effect it had on their friendship. Apart from a brief text message exchange that confirmed that the rooftop battle had _not_ been the end of vigilantes in New York, they hadn’t really communicated since that final conversation in the office. Foggy wished that it hadn’t taken a Karen crisis for Matt to reconnect, but he was glad to hear his voice regardless. They were best friends for a reason. 

“Look buddy, I have to go. Work calls. But I’ll come round tonight, okay?” It wasn’t really a question, but Matt voiced a small grunt of agreement and hung up. 

Foggy turned up with a six pack of beer and takeaway curry, scrutinising Matt’s apartment for signs of what his friend had been up to in the period since Nelson & Murdock had folded.

“How are you?” Foggy didn’t expect a straight answer, but the cuts and bruises covering Matt’s face were enough to at warrant asking, even if only out of politeness. 

“I’m okay.” 

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Not this again. If you want to play all mysterious and not tell me what’s been going on, it’s up to you. But I’m going to leave if you’re not honest with me.” 

“Elektra’s dead.” 

Matt wasn’t planning on telling Foggy. He knew all too well how Foggy felt about Elektra. “She’s the original femme fatale,” Foggy had once said. “She’s going to get you killed. You’ll end up squished in the front seat of a fancy stolen vehicle.” Foggy didn’t realise just how close his prophecy was to being fulfilled. Matt braced for the lecture, adopting a hangdog expression.

“I’m sorry,” Foggy eventually said in a soft voice.

Matt raised his head, surprised at the sympathetic words. “You hated Elektra,” he pointed out. 

“I hated what she did to you, how you behaved around her. I didn’t want her dead. And I certainly don’t want you to be upset.”

Matt reached for a beer as a diversion. Too many emotions. With a quick movement, he cracked the lid against the table edge and it spun through the air, ricocheting off the kitchen counter and into the bin. Foggy rolled his eyes. “Show off.” Matt grinned indulgently.

“You going to get a job?” Foggy asked.

“I kinda have to. I have a bit of money stashed away but that’s not going to last long.”

“There might be some temp discovery work at my office. I could ask,” Foggy offered, knowing full well that Matt would reject his help.

“It’s okay. I have a plan.”

There was an awkward silence as the two men independently mulled over the events of the past weeks.

“How is the new job?” Matt finally asked with false casualness.

“Oh you know, corporate law. Well paid, but soulless. You’d hate it.”

“Do you?”

“No, but it’s early days. Plus they have free bagels everyday.”

They both chuckled.

“Wanna watch-”

“Should we watch a movie?” 

They both smiled a little at their simultaneous suggestion, and Matt busied himself with his laptop, relieved at the distraction.

“Original Foggy commentary or boring movie studio voice description?” Foggy asked as they scrolled through the options online.

“Foggy. Always,” Matt smiled as he grabbed another couple of beers from the fridge.

“Okay, but only if you can get the bottle top to hit three different objects before going into the bin.” If Foggy was going to suffer a friend who could backflip over Ninjas and stop knives mid-air, he was going to damn well enjoy the circus.

“Easy,” Matt shrugged. He got it first try.

Foggy’s commentary made Baz Luhrmann’s _Romeo & Juliet_ a lot funnier than intended. His description of the fish tank scene in particular inspired a lengthy pun war.

“You’re _krilling_ me!” Matt had laughed.

“ _Gill_ -ty as charged,” Foggy quipped in return.

After the movie had finished, Foggy said, “I don’t know if we should have watched a movie in which two lovers die. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?" 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Can we quickly talk about the Karen thing though?”

Foggy looked at his watch. “Yeah, quickly.”

Matt didn’t want to test Foggy’s patience so he didn’t muck around. “What should I do?” 

“Talk to her.”

Matt’s pained face told Foggy that there was no way that was going to happen.

He sighed. “Okay, _I’ll_ talk to her. Sound things out.”

“Thanks Foggy, I owe you.”

“You do. I’m going to hold you to that.”

As he exited the door, Foggy yelled over his shoulder, “and ring me if you’re having a crisis.”

 

Karen clammed up when Foggy asked her about the situation. “Don’t get involved, Foggy,” she ordered, and that was the end of that.

* * *

 

And so two weeks passed, the questions mulling over and over in Matt’s head. Too cowardly to pick up the phone and call her (although he told himself he was giving her space), but consumed with worry. Until his phone buzzed.

He replayed the message.

_“One new message from Karen,_ ” Matt’s phone said.

“ _Hey Matt, Can we talk? Karen”_

No sooner had Matt texted a reply in the affirmative, he heard a knock at the door. How could he miss the approaching heartbeat? He’d been so consumed with the ‘what ifs’ associated with the message that he hadn’t noticed Karen’s familiar beat outside his apartment.

He started walking towards the door, hesitated, and made a quick diversion into the kitchen to grab his glasses. Much better.

By the time he opened the door, his stomach was churning, his heart pounding and his chest constricted to the point of near suffocation.

“Hey Matt,” Karen said simply, her equally fast heartbeat betraying her attempt at a casual greeting.

“Hey.”


	2. You're starting to smell a bit like Josie's

“Can I come in?”, Karen asked awkwardly.

“Oh yes… yes, of course,” Matt stammered, moving back so she could slip past.

Karen surveyed the room. Matt’s usually sparse living area was in relative chaos. There were blankets rumpled on the couch and floor, unwashed glasses on the tables and sink, a stack of empty beer bottles growing out the top of the bin, and piles of documents all over the kitchen table. Standing there in his too-large sweats, he looked skinnier than when she last saw him, and she wondered if he’d been consuming anything other than alcohol.

“You got some freelance work then?” she asked, looking at the piles of braille-printed paper on the table. 

“Yeah. Document review. Not the most fascinating of tasks, but it pays the bills.” 

“They let you print it out and take it home?”

“The print outs are for something else, but yes, they let me work from home. They’re not the most detail-oriented people, my employers,” he said crisply, an unhappy emphasis on the last two words.

“Who-” Karen shook her head. “Actually never mind. I came to talk to you about Daredevil.”

Matt’s heart took off in a gallop again.

“Want to sit?” Matt asked, swiftly making his way over to the couch and trying to do a remedial speed clean of all surfaces. It was not a good look, and he knew it. He could feel Karen’s critical gaze as he deftly picked up the blankets and put them in a pile next to the couch. There was no need for the façade anymore - no need to feel around ‘blindly’.

“Do you want a beer?” he eventually asked, heading to the fridge. Karen was poised to say no as per normal, but changed her mind when she realised it might actually help the situation.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Matt decided not to do his bottle top trick this time. Foggy’s challenges had been getting more and more demanding over the past two weeks, and while he was certain he could impress Karen with his ability to hit _eight_ objects in succession, it was probably not the time or place.

“How-” they both started at once, hesitating before concurrently saying, “you go…”

Matt started again. “How did you know?”

“Well, I didn’t. Not for sure… I mean, I knew but I still wasn’t sure what to believe.”

Matt furrowed his brow, but didn’t say anything.

“Outside the courthouse, after the DA got shot. Do you remember me suggesting you were in a fight club?” 

Matt nodded. “That was a joke though, right?”

“Not a joke, but it wasn’t a serious proposition either. But it got me thinking. You turn up with bruises and cuts that can’t be explained by Matt Murdock’s rather benign lifestyle. You seem to have an uncanny sense of direction and ability to find your way around. And when you think I’m not looking, you tend to act quite differently. You move more smoothly, more confidently than usual.” 

“Plus you’re a terrible liar,” she added rubbing salt into the wound.

“So I looked back at the dates you turned up most injured or didn’t come in at all and compared them to the Daredevil sightings in the news…” She hesitated slightly, “… as well as the times I saw him… er, you -”

“Hang on, how do you remember the dates I came in injured?” Matt interrupted, confused.

“I always noted it in the diary. You don’t exactly do your best work when you turn up with a bruised head, so I noted it in the diary so that I could do a more thorough check for document errors.”

Matt blushed, embarrassed. He hadn’t known Karen was so aware of his work patterns, nor that she was cleaning up after his sloppy work.

“Anyway, they mostly corresponded. I still didn’t think it was possible so I started looking into other explanations. But then I was kidnapped and _you_ turned up.”

“So you _did_ know it was me… that moment… in the warehouse.”

“Of course. Your jawline. Your lips. Your…” Karen searched for the right word, “confidence…. and your rage. I could see it there that night. And I knew.”

“But you said you didn’t know for sure.”

“The thing is, I don’t know how you do it. I mean you _are_ blind, I know that. But how do you _see_ everything? Knives, stairs, assassins, punches… you see it all. How?”

“It’s called echolocation. I can map out objects in my head using my other senses.”

“Yeah but how? I mean, most blind people can’t fight a knife-wielding ninja, can they?”

“No, my senses are unusually enhanced as a result of the accident when I was a child. The chemicals blinded me but left me with an ability to smell, hear, feel and taste better than before. Plus I trained. My skills, my abilities… they don’t all come naturally.”

“Can you see me?”

“No, I can’t see. I told you.” 

“I know, I mean do you know how I’m sitting, what I’m doing right now?” 

“Yes, you’re sitting forward slightly, pulling the label off the beer bottle a millimetre at a time.”

When Karen didn’t say anything, he elaborated. “I can sense your movement, the warmth of your body, your heart beat. I can smell your hair, which is also hanging forward, moving slightly. It’s creating a scented breeze. I can hear the ripping of the label. I can hear that your glass bottle is almost completely full of liquid, which means you’ve barely taken a sip of the beer. Do you want me to go on?”

Karen didn’t answer immediately. “You can hear my heartbeat,” she finally repeated.

Matt sighed and leaned back against the couch. Why was everyone so concerned about the heartbeat thing?

“But you can fight like a nothing I’ve ever seen. How? Who taught you? I mean, I saw you do _triple backflips_.” She hesitated before spitting out, “can you do one now for me?” 

Matt shifted awkwardly. “Kare-”

“Here, let me take these,” she said, reaching for his glasses. He reacted instinctively, grabbing her wrist, but quickly released it when he realised that her heart had jumped in shock. Two steps forward, one step back.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t want… I can’t…” Matt didn’t know how to respond to Karen’s stream of questions (nor did he want questions about his glasses).

Recognising that she’d crossed a line, Karen adopted a more sanguine tone. “Thanks for saving me, Matt. That time in my apartment, and then in the warehouse. I know I told you I wasn’t yours to save…” she paused, “…and I’m not,” she added resolutely. “But you’re a brave man.”

“And a bit of an idiot,” she added, teasingly.

Matt blushed again. Although he wanted to keep hiding behind his glasses, he removed them at Karen’s conciliatory words. 

“I understand why you didn’t tell me,” she eventually continued. “I wish you had, but I understand why you needed to keep it a secret.”

Matt just nodded.

“Foggy knows,” she stated with a slight tone of curiosity. 

“Yes. He wasn’t quite as understanding when he found out. It wasn’t a happy experience. Last year… I don’t know if you noticed.”

“Ohhh…” Karen said, putting two and two together. “ _That’s_ what happened. But you know, you’re closer than anyone I know. Of course he was going to be pissed off.”

Matt shrugged. 

“So… you, me, Foggy…” Karen listed, looking at him expectantly for a continuation.

“I have another friend, Claire. She sometimes helps.”

“Was she the one-”?

“No, that was Elektra.” Matt swallowed. “She’s dead.”

Karen was taken aback at how casually Matt had delivered this bombshell. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone about… me… Daredevil.” Matt stated, quickly changing the subject. Karen could tell it was more a question, even without the inflection. 

“Of course not. Who do you think I am?”

“Well, I don’t know, Miss Page. You’re a pretty mysterious woman.”

“Not as mysterious as you, Mr Murdock.” They both chuckled. And just like that, the dark clouds cleared. 

“Now, what are we going to do about all this?” Karen said in her getting-down-to-business tone. 

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t see me point at your piles of mess just then.” 

“I can’t see,” said Matt sarcastically, waving his hand in front of his face.

“You know exactly what I mean, Matthew Murdock.” Karen retorted. “Besides, you use the words ‘look’ and ‘see’ figuratively all the time.”

She tried again, “Look, you’re obviously not in the best place. You’re damn musky, you haven’t shaved I-don’t-know-how-long, your sweats look like they’ve got… what is that? Ew.... It looks like you haven’t eaten for awhile, this place is starting to smell a bit like Josie’s-”

“No it’s not,” he interrupted, offended at the clear exaggeration.

“Okay, it doesn’t smell like vomit, but it does smell like stale beer and rancid body odour. If you really have super senses as you say, surely you can smell that.” 

“Rancid? That’s a bit harsh,” Matt said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Have a shower. Eat some food. Do you want me to get something from the Thai place around the corner?” 

“No, I’m fine. I can look after myself. I’m Daredevil after all,” Matt joked.

“Well Daredevil probably needs to lay off the booze for awhile and eat something if he wants to keep kicking ass.” 

“So you’re okay with it?” 

“Daredevil? Well, mostly.” 

Matt waited for an elaboration on the asterisk, but it never came. 

“Can we have lunch on Saturday?” She surprised him. It seemed like such a normal thing to suggest after such an unusual conversation. “I’ll ask Foggy. It’ll be like old times.” 

This was the last thing Matt had been expecting from a conversation with Karen. He expected yelling, anger, maybe some tears. Instead she’d told Daredevil to shape up, and meet her for a lunch date. What was the catch? 

Before he could dwell on her intentions further, Karen started walking towards the door. “I’ll see you Saturday,” she confirmed. “Maybe we can go to Central Park if it’s a nice day.”

“I’d like that. And… Karen?” he hesitated as she exited the door, “thank you.”

Karen nodded and walked away with a wave of the hand. He could tell that, right?


	3. We’re not allowed to touch those ones

Once Karen had left, Matt made a special effort to scrub himself clean. He lathered himself head to toe in soap, washing his hair multiple times as if trying to wash away the emotional funk as well. He’d been embarrassed about Karen’s comments about rancid body odour, but recognised she was right. He’d been feeling pretty down lately with his business gone, bridges burned, and a feeling of utter confusion about the seemingly mystical events leading up to Elektra’s death. The build-up of adrenaline fuelled by hunting the Hand, tracking down the Punisher, and uncovering Fisk’s continued involvement in the crime underworld, had led to a corresponding crash. He felt like a failure and lacked the confidence and motivation to do much at all. At least alcohol took some of the edge off his anxiety. But it was only when Karen called him out on his shambolic state that he realised how much he’d stopped caring about pretty much anything other than Karen and Foggy.

He trashed the beer bottles, ordered a tonne of vegetables online, and headed to the gym in an attempt to regain some of his strength. He left the gym sweaty, filled with endorphins, and in a slightly brighter mood.

But that was Monday. Within days Matt had slumped back into a somewhat apathetic state, the bottles had started building up again, the vegetables were withered in his fridge, and the leftovers from one of his and Foggy’s many takeaway dinners was starting to grow a layer of mould. Normally, Matt would have binned it long before it got to the growth stage, but he was wallowing in his own misery and it seemed to provide the appropriate olfactory ‘soundtrack’.

Ever since Matt’s desperate call about Karen two weeks ago, Foggy had turned up every three nights or so with beer and takeaway. Perhaps Foggy knew Matt wasn’t really eating anything else, or perhaps he too simply missed hanging out with his best friend at work every day. Matt had assumed that his new job would consume his every waking moment, but when asked Foggy simply shrugged and told him that he’d probably drop dead of boredom if he spent more time around his new colleagues. Either that or they might eat him.

“They _are_ sharks, Matt”, he’d whispered conspiratorially. “I know we’ve joked about it in the past, but it’s true. Actual Great White Sharks. They see the little guy and they go in for the kill. Terrifying.”

Other than that, Foggy didn’t talk much about his new work and Matt didn’t ask. The end of Nelson & Murdoch was still a sore point and while Foggy’s initial anger about Matt’s behaviour during the Punisher case had quickly dissipated, (much to Matt’s surprise and relief) there seemed to be an unsaid agreement not to talk about it or anything related. 

Alone, however, Matt dwelled on this unexpected career turn quite a bit. He was possessed of a brilliant mind, and the rote document review work he was doing on his kitchen table by day was boring him senseless. He’d gone into law to help people, and yet there he was reviewing something about property development and working for a guy who had the charisma of a slug. 

His Daredevil exploits were not exactly engaging either. After all Matt’s speeches about giving up law to go full-time-vigilante, he’d found that with the Hand gone to ground, the Punisher in hiding and Fisk lying low, there was little but petty robbers and drug dealers to accost. It was not exactly challenging material, although at least it gave him something to punch.

* * *

 

It was now Friday and Foggy had promised to come round for dinner and a movie after work, forgoing the traditional end of week work drinks at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz (“the free bagels are more than enough and at least I don’t need to talk to people when I eat them. At drinks, I have to talk to the sharks.”). Matt used to relish his solitude, but he was getting too much of it lately and Foggy’s visits were more welcome than Matt would ever let on. In fact, Karen’s promised lunch date on Saturday and Foggy’s dinner dates were the only thing shoehorning him out of bed all week. 

Matt’s self-assigned task for the day was to finish a single document review, but concentration was eluding him. He rubbed his head in frustration, and started re-read the same sentence for the fifth time.

His phone beeped and Matt welcomed the distraction.

“One new message from Karen,” it announced at his prompt.

_“Hi Matt, let’s meet at the Met at 11 tomorrow. Top of the museum steps. We can wander around the sculptures and then grab some lunch in the park. Karen”_

Matt didn’t pick Karen as someone who would be into art. He hoped she didn’t have an ulterior motive for visiting The Metropolitan Museum of Art, as she so often seemed to at the moment.

By the time Foggy turned up with pizza and beer, Matt had long abandoned his freelance work.

“Watcha doing?” Foggy asked singingly as Matt let him in.

“Nothing”, Matt said quite truthfully, a little dazed.

Matt had been standing motionless next to the window for a couple of hours just listening to the world around him. The idea of the radio irritated him at that point in time, and he didn’t have the patience or attention span for a book, so he just stood. This was nothing new. He used to freak Foggy out at college when he’d stand and listen to the world, seemingly unmoving. It was usually when he was too overwhelmed to do much else.

Foggy eyed him critically. “Were you doing your creepy statue thing again?” That’s what Foggy called his moments of inactivity.

“I’m just practicing for tomorrow so I can blend in at the museum,” Matt joked, confused as to how Foggy had deduced his afternoon activity.

“You got that message too then,” confirmed Foggy. “Why the Met? Why can’t we see dinosaurs instead?”

“Do you want me to text her and see if we can visit the natural history museum instead?” Matt offered, even though he liked the Met and was a little disappointed at Foggy’s lack of enthusiasm.

“No, knowing Karen, we’re probably going there to hunt down some uber criminal. Maybe the Punisher is hiding out in the decorative arts collection and she wants you to smoke him out. You two have more in common than you realise.”

The next morning as Matt and Foggy walked through Central Park to the museum, they jokingly plotted their method of escape just in case Karen really was planning something “nefarious” (Foggy’s exact words). “Maybe she’s discovered a secret lair underneath the Egyptian room,” he mused. “Or someone’s smuggling drugs in artworks.”

Just as Foggy and Matt had suspected, Karen had not been completely honest about her choice of meeting spot. Before they even entered the building, Karen pulled them aside and whispered, “okay, don’t freak out but I’m investigating something to do with the Met and I need your help.”

“Told you,” Foggy said smugly to Matt.

“What are… Actually, why didn’t you just tell us beforehand instead of leading us on?” Matt asked indignantly.

“You wouldn’t have come.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well maybe I don’t,” she snapped, “but you’re here now so let’s enjoy it. Oh and Matt, we’re doing a touch tour for the blind and I need you to tell me if a particular sculpture is real or not.”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“Your superpowers?”

“Karen!” Foggy and Matt hissed at once. 

“What? I didn’t say anything incriminating.”

Matt repeated. “The _tour_ \- it doesn’t work like that. This place is huge and they only let you touch certain things.”

“Oh.”

Foggy chimed in, “so what, you were just going to take advantage of Matt’s blindness to touch the art?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“Jesus, that’s a bit low, Karen,” he said witheringly.

“Language,” Matt reminded him, always a Catholic.

“You don’t have to do this, Matt”, Foggy said protectively. 

“Yeah I know,” Matt shrugged. “But I like these tours. It’ll be fun.” In all honesty, Matt found Karen’s predictability and bloody mindedness quite amusing. Besides, he was glad of Karen and Foggy’s company regardless of the activity.

“Great”, Karen said as she grabbed Matt’s arm and dragged him towards the information desk. “We have a tour booked for 11.15.”

 

Matt had always enjoyed the Met. He’d visited a couple of times on school excursions, and he and Foggy visited a few times while they were at college (although Foggy preferred the Natural History Museum). As a school kid, the staff had taken him aside and let him touch a mummified cat (albeit with gloves), which caused quite a bit of jealousy among his schoolmates. His history textbooks had a few raised maps, but they didn’t have pictures in them like the ones his classmates used, so the touch tours of the Met’s collections were his best opportunity to get a mental picture of what Egyptian and Roman objects were like. On learning that he’d only just lost his sight a few years earlier, one of the staff had pointed out to him that he probably had an advantage over the other kids when imagining what the Classical marble sculptures originally looked like. “The Romans painted their figures in bright colours. We know this because we have found a few with the paint still attached. But it’s hard for most people to imagine because they’re so white and we’re used to seeing white marble sculptures as normal.” Matt considered it a poor consolation prize, but he liked being told he was special in a more positive light for once.

Now as a grown up, Matt was still enjoying the same Classical sculptures, although he’d long stopped thinking about objects in terms of colour, light and other visual elements. Instead, he appreciated the statues in other ways: the solidity and temperature of the marble, the balance in both posture and physical weight of the stone, the difference between the smooth surface of the figures and the rough texture of the supporting objects at their feet.

The guide was leading them over to a sculpture of a woman and her dog when Karen hissed at Matt, “there… that one.” 

“What?”

“That sculpture. To your right. Go and touch it.”

“We’re not allowed to touch those ones,” Matt hissed in return. “They said not to touch anything unless directed.”

"Like you pay attention to rules. Do it stealthily. Like Daredevil would." 

" _Karen_!" 

"What? It's a saying. I'm not saying you are Daredevil."

Matt's mouth was taut with anger. "You said you wouldn't tell."

"I'm not."

"Well can you not talk about  _it_  in public places please."

"Yeah, yeah. Now will you feel it for me or not?" Karen wasn't going to quit.

"I can tell you without touching that it's real. The qualities of the stone are the same as the others around it. Same age, same wear, same type of stone."

"So we didn't have to do this tour after all?" Karen sounded disappointed. Matt couldn't work out whether she was disappointed by the fact the sculpture was real or disappointed in the fruitlessness of her plan to trick Matt into doing a touch tour. 

"Not in order to assess its authenticity. But I'm enjoying this tour." Matt smiled. 

"Oh good," Karen said, now a little distracted. Matt heard her shuffle round in her bag, draw out a pen and paper and start scribbling notes.

At the end of the tour, it was announced that there was a drawing workshop for blind and visually impaired visitors starting shortly. 

"Do you want to stick around for that?" Karen asked, encouraged by Matt’s obvious enthusiasm for the museum so far.

Matt was tempted by the workshop, but didn’t want to put Foggy and Karen out.

Foggy saw Matt hesitate and suspected the reason for Matt’s reluctance. "Can we do it too?" Foggy asked the educator.

"If there are spaces available I think it'd be okay." 

The three friends laughed at their initial attempts at drawing the small sculptures and artefacts placed in front of them. The educator seemed slightly cross at the seeming inattention at first, but relaxed after seeing Matt’s absorption in the activity. After feeling the small replica of an ancient Venus statuette, Matt produced a series of curiously patterned drawings. He eventually moved onto a more ornate ceramic vessel with a raised floral pattern and smooth glazed surface. His drawings weren't mimetic representations of the objects he was feeling. The lines overlapped, and his shading didn't correspond to the light and shadows across form as someone with vision would draw them. Instead, the heavier marks seemed to map out the varying thickness in the vessel’s walls. The educator praised his drawings much to Matt's chagrin, telling him at the end, "you're welcome to join us whenever you'd like. And there's a special accessible tour of the new exhibition next Thursday afternoon." 

"I'd like that, thank you." Matt made a mental note of the date in his mind, planning to return. He was surprised at the inner peace he’d experienced while drawing. He’d been completely lost in the moment – something that not even meditation could achieve nowadays.

It was a lovely warm day, so on leaving the museum Karen dragged them to one of the outdoor kiosks in Central Park, even though Foggy and Matt wanted to go to Josie's.

“Come on, Guys. It's sunny. We should be enjoying the weather. You both need to be outdoors in the fresh air… _during the day_ ,” she said pointedly. “Josie’s is dark and smells like... well, you know…” She directed her last point at Matt who pretended not to notice.

So Foggy bought them all a round of icecream and they sat along the edge of the duck pond, throwing bits of cone for the birds. Somehow Matt always seemed to get his pieces mere millimetres from the ducks’ beaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I once led a workshop that went very much like the one described in this chapter. Also, don't touch the art.


	4. We didn't really have art classes

A few days later, Matt was interrupted by a strangely violent knocking at his door. "Maaaatt," Karen wailed.

He rushed to the door worried it was an emergency, only to find her struggling with a cumbersome object. Both hands were full and she was about to kick on the door again.

"What are you-" he started, trying to work out why she was carrying something very heavy, very lumpy, and very earthy smelling.

"Let me-"

"No, I just need to get this to the table" she grunted, making her way awkwardly to the kitchen table and letting the package hit the surface with a loud thump.

"What's going on?"

"I got you some clay."

"Huh?"

"To make a sculpture."

"Huh?"

Karen elaborated, clearly frustrated at Matt's confusion. "You enjoyed the drawing class at the Met, so I thought maybe you'd enjoy making a sculpture as well."

Matt stood there silently.

"What? You don't want to? Are you mad?" 

"No, not at all. Just... surprised."

"Well, you need a hobby other than hitting people so here it is."

"Karen, I-" 

"No buts. Give it a go."

She started pulling away the plastic bag it was triple wrapped in.  

"Ah, isn't it a bit messy?"

"We'll just put some newspaper down."

"I don't really read the newspaper."

"Oh yeah. Okay, I'll grab one from the shop round the corner. I'll be right back." she made to move to the door.

"Wait," Matt grabbed her arm (something he wouldn't have been able to do a month ago when he was disguising his true abilities).” You're not going to buy a newspaper just so I can trash it." 

"Why not. Newspapers need all the help they can get in this day and age, even if it's just used as a table surface." 

"You'd be happy as a journalist for someone to put dirt on your work instead of reading it?"

"No, of course not. Anyway, why are you arguing?" 

"I'm not." Karen frustrated the hell out of Matt at times. There was nothing he could say.

* * *

 

 

She returned five minutes later with a packet of garbage bags and a bottle of tequila.

"No newspaper?" Matt asked, amused.

"You can tell that?" Karen said, slightly awed.

"Yeah. You got plastic instead of paper. And something in a glass bottle...why the bottle of whiskey?"

"Tequila actually. I guess there are some things that elude you."

Matt laughed. "Yes, I thought it was a good guess. If it'd been opened I would have been able to tell. But really, why the alcohol?"

"Well, you seemed a bit reluctant, so I thought maybe this would get you in the mood."

"Doesn't seem very healthy."

"Says Mr surviving-on-a-diet-of-beer-and-takeaway-dinners," she teased.

"Point taken."

"Anyway, roll your sleeves up. We're doing this, Murdock."

Matt knew not to cross Karen when she was in a determined mood. And he _had_ enjoyed the drawing workshop at the Met. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. 

"Shall we text Foggy?" he asked keenly.

"Sure... but he's probably at work with it being a Monday afternoon and all."

"Oh, yeah. Shouldn't you be at work?" 

"I-"

Matt quickly interrupted. "This isn't a story you're writing is it? Blind man makes art et cetera."

"No. Do you think I'm that devious? Although it is a good idea," she added.

Matt ran his hands through his hair a little nervously. He could never predict what Karen would do next. It was one of the reasons he liked her, but also the reason he was a little bit afraid of her.

"I set my own hours. I spent Sunday chasing down a story so I figured I could take the afternoon off to distract my friend in crisis."

"I'm not in crisis."

"Your bin of empty beer bottles says otherwise."

Matt huffed. He was planning to get rid of the evidence before Foggy turned up with dinner. Karen had unfairly surprised him. 

"That's what I thought," she said in a satisfied tone when he didn’t bite back. She continued ripping off the layers of plastic.

"It smells pretty strong," Matt observed.

"You don't like it?"

"No, it’s fine. It's just unusual, that's all."

Karen rolled her eyes. "New Yorkers," she moaned derisively. "It smells like nature, Matt. Heard of it?"

"So what do we do?" Matt asked, changing the subject. 

"You've never played with clay before?" 

"As you said, we don't have much nature in the Kitchen."

"Yeah, but everyone does it at school. In art class."

"We didn't really have art classes. Well, at least they weren't compulsory past a certain point and before that we just did paper crafts and drawing. My dad would have preferred me to do science and maths so once we had a choice, I selected those subjects instead."

Karen knew little about Matt's childhood other than what Foggy had told her in passing. She knew even after his death, Matt was still trying to please his father. It seemed like odd behaviour to Karen who was always determined to make her own choices and do her own thing. She didn't remark on it though.

"Well, there’s a first time for everything,” she smiled. “Get a bowl of water. You're not meant to use too much because it weakens the clay, but the water prevents it drying out while you're working with it.”

Matt duly obeyed.

Karen was still fascinated with Matt's change in behaviour around her now that she knew his secret. He'd always been so graceful, even when acting as he thought a blind person should according to society. Now that he didn't have to pretend anymore, his movements were even more beautiful than before.

Matt raised his eyebrows at her, and she startled slightly. How did he know she was staring? Did he miss  _anything_? Karen flushed with embarrassment, but if Matt noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Now what?"

"We grab a lump and start making something."

"Like what?"

"Seriously, Matt? I can't supply you with everything. You choose a subject."

"Okay, I'll sculpt you."

"I thought you couldn't see me - you know, the details, my features."

"I can't, but I can feel you."

"Are you hitting on me, Matthew Murdock?"

Matt laughed. "Maybe."

The afternoon had gone from weird to weirder. But Matt was enjoying himself. Much better than document review. And Foggy was right – Matt really did enjoy flirting.

"I’m assuming your school art classes didn’t involve tequila."

Karen laughed. "Get a couple of glasses out before we start getting messy."

"Things are going to get really messy if we drink all this tequila."

"Well, they're going to get messy anyway. As you said, clay ain’t neat." She ignored Matt’s worried expression and retrieved the glasses herself, pouring a shot each.

"One to get us started."

"You're a terrible influence."

"Well, if I'm going to let you fondle my face, I'm going to have a shot of tequila first." 

Matt didn't know how to interpret that line of reasoning, but he decided it was a good deal nonetheless and downed the glass in one gulp. He reached for Karen's face. 

"Hang on, slow down," Karen dodged his hands and rifled through her bag, pulling out an elastic and pulling her hair into a ponytail. "Okay, now go." 

Matt put his hands on her neck, slowly working his way up her jaw, cheeks, temple, before working his way down to her mouth where he lingered for awhile. Karen's heart was beating faster than usual, but Matt ignored it, moving his hands around her head to the base of her skull and up around the top of her head. 

"Right," he announced, and Karen's breath changed a little, as if jolted from a spell. "So I just grab some and start?"

"Yeah," Karen encouraged, pouring another shot for each of them.

They each grabbed a lump and started kneading it, softening it into a more malleable form. 

Matt started shaping his lump into a vague egg shape, pulling out a section for the nose and hollowing out the neck at the bottom.  
  
“Can I stick a glass or something underneath to anchor it? It's going to fall over otherwise." 

"Yeah I guess. If you want to fire it, you can just remove it. It's probably better being hollow anyway."

He grabbed a glass and shoved it into the bottom of clay Karen's neck. She winced a little at the violence.

"May I?" He asked, reaching towards her face once again. 

"With clay on your hands? I don't think so."

"Why not? Dirt washes off."

"It's not dirt - it's clay. It's cleaner than dirt"

"Well even better then," he quipped.

She capitulated and Matt placed his hands across her cheeks and nose. They were slightly slimy with clay and water, and as his finger marks started to dry, Karen could feel the pull of the dried clay across her face.

"People spend a lot of money on clay masks," she laughed. "But I got this one for $12"

"Plus the bottle of tequila."

"Bonus."

Matt's sculptural portrait of Karen slowly took form. She was increasingly impressed with its likeness, and embarrassed about her own attempt. Her sculpture of Matt was a lot less convincing with its lumpy carrot-like nose and stumpy neck.

He was struggling with her mouth. Leaning over, he asked, "may I?"

With both hands, he drew his fingers around her lips, feeling her chin and cheeks around it. He was incredibly gentle, his hands moving in perfect symmetry and his face expressionless as he concentrated on the form. Karen felt herself lean forward into his hands a little, trying desperately to calm her raging heartbeat, which Matt could no doubt hear. This was not the intention of Karen's clay purchase. She thought she had absolutely no desire to reengage Matt in a romantic relationship. As she had told the Punisher, Matt was a dangerous man. Someone who hurt people. She didn't want that. But in this moment, that kind of objective reasoning was quickly falling by the wayside.

Matt was completely absorbed in the process and was in such a state of concentration that he didn’t even register Karen's heartbeat. He returned to the sculpture, pushing her clay lips into form. Karen tried to busy herself with her own work, self-conscious that her body kept betraying her bodily desires.

He finally removed his hands in a triumphant gesture. "There! What do you think?"

“It looks like a 3D print. How in earth did you do that?"

"You just saw how."

"Yes, but how do you make it look so real? I mean, not even someone who can see could do that."

"Maybe that's my advantage," he mused. "Or maybe it's the model."

Karen groaned. "You have the worst lines."

"It's not a line." He reached out and touched her lips again, and slowly leaned into her. She hesitated a little. She wanted this, right? But it was a terrible idea. He was dangerous. He hurt people. 

He was so gentle, so sensuous in his gestures. It quickly escalated. She could feel the grains of clay rub abrasively between their skins. Matt didn't flinch, even though it was akin to sandpaper on his cheek. He pulled her towards the couch and she pulled on his t-shirt, lifting it over his head and forcing a temporary break in his lust-fuelled kissing. Karen let out a small gasp of surprise as she felt and then saw the scars on his chest and torso, and he pulled her chin up towards his face once more ("they're enjoying themselves too much to notice," was a hope, not a reality). Karen started unbuttoning her blouse, but just as she'd undone the bottom button, Matt stopped suddenly, tilting his head to the side. 

"Oh no," he moaned. "Quick, put your shirt back on", he said in a hurried whisper.

"Why?" she said, worried and disappointed. 

"Foggy," he stammered. 

"Shit. I didn't call him."

"No, he was coming over for dinner. What's the time?" 

"Well, it's dark out so it must be after 6 o'clock." 

"I can't tell, Karen."

"What? You can tell the difference between plastic and paper from across the room, but you can't tell night and day?" She said somewhat sarcastically, hurriedly doing up her buttons. 

"I can feel the sun and recognise the shift in sounds, but I was a little distracted in case you hadn’t noticed." 

They heard a knock on the door. 

"Quick, look normal," Matt hissed. 

"We're both covered in clay. We look the opposite of normal," Karen pointed out, but she brushed her hands through her hair, trying to pat it into something a little less wild. 

Matt opened the door. Foggy stood in the hall for more than a brief moment, eyes raised.

"What _is_ that?" he finally asked Matt, with a disgusted tone.

"Clay," Matt responded a little too brightly.

"Phew, I thought it was -" 

"Foggy," Matt moaned, rolling his eyes. 

"Oh hi, Karen." Foggy said, taken aback when he rounded the corner into the living room.

He narrowed his eyes, "what's going on?" But he knew full well, and blushed at the thought of what he'd evidently just walked in on. Matt had smears of clay around his mouth and shirt, and Karen's mouth looked far cleaner than the rest of her face, not to mention the handprints around her breasts and waist.  

"We're making sculptures," Matt pointed out, ignoring Foggy's far from normal heartbeat. 

"So I can see," Foggy chuckled. "I brought dinner," he said somewhat redundantly, holding up the bag of takeaway. "But I can leave if you've not finished your _art project_."

"No need," Matt said quickly. 

Karen was still standing there silently, looking mortified at the situation. "I can go," she said hurriedly. 

"No there's more than enough," Foggy said. "I always over order."

"This is true," Matt added quickly, eager to clear the awkwardness. "Maybe we'll eat on the couch," he suggested, gesturing towards the sculptures as a way of indicating that the kitchen table was already occupied.

Foggy looked at the sculptures properly for the first time. "Shit, Matt. Is that Karen?" 

"Yeah, can you tell?" 

"Can I tell?! It's like a photo… as a sculpture. It's exactly her."

"Oh, okay. Good." 

"Is that tequila?"

Matt frowned. Was Foggy telling them off for the tequila of all things?

"Yeah, is that beer?" he gestured towards Foggy's bags.

"Yeah, smartass. Let's eat. The food’s not getting any warmer."

What followed was probably one of the most awkward dinners of their respective lives. Karen quickly excused herself after eating, citing her need for a shower. Foggy got up to go as well not wanting to get in the way of anything else happening that evening, but Karen grabbed her bag and disappeared out the door before the argument could be made.

Foggy grinned at Matt once Karen was out the door. "Of course sculpting leads to whatever just happened."

Matt laughed. "I guess it does."

"Maybe I should take up art too," Foggy mused. "Or is it only Matt Murdock who can go from clay to sex in one fell swoop?" 

"We didn't have sex, Foggy." Matt said indignantly.

"Oh."

"Do you want a go?" Matt asked genuinely.

"Are you hitting on me?" Foggy laughed.  

"Come on," Matt grabbed him, and pulled him towards the table. "Clay’s fun."

"Maybe another time," Foggy said warily at Matt’s enthusiasm. "Some of us have jobs to go to in the morning."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Matt called out as Foggy left. "This weekend, clay time."

Foggy rolled his eyes again as he headed down the stairs.

* * *

 

Karen received a text message from Matt the following day:

" _Sculpture this Saturday?_ " 

" _Is that a euphemism_?" she texted back. He deserved that.

" _No. Foggy is coming_."

Karen felt a little hurt, but relieved nonetheless. In the heat of the moment she had felt an uncompromising desire, but with time and thought on her side, she was determined to avoid any future entanglements. Her ego wanted him to lust after her though. 

" _I have to work this Saturday. Maybe another time_."

* * *

 

"Really? You want to touch my face with dirty hands?" Foggy had agreed to be Matt’s muse for the day, but evidently didn’t realise that Karen’s Monday evening face mask was a by-product of Matt’s creative process.

"Yeah, I'm not going to wash my hands every time."

"Why not? The tap's just there." 

"Please Foggy?" Matt whined.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a hurt puppy dog." 

"I'm not." 

"Yes you are. You're giving me that face. You know the face." 

"I can't see." 

"Yeah but you know. You must know. You bring it out whenever you need something and words aren't enough."

Matt laughed. "Is it working?" 

Foggy rolled his eyes. "Yes, go on," finally resigned to the fact that Matt usually got his way. 

“I can see why you and Karen got down and dirty after this,” Foggy said after awhile. “It’s pretty sensual.” 

“Mmmm…” Matt hummed absentmindedly. Foggy tried again, “you know, you get pretty intense when you’re doing something creative.” Matt was lost in his own world and ignored the chattering, so Foggy turned back to his beer and the pile of clay worms he’d been rolling. 

Once Matt pronounced the sculpture finished, Foggy stood up to scrutinise it from all angles. “I don’t look like that from the side, do I? Look at that chin!” 

“Dunno. I can’t see you.” 

Foggy punched Matt in the arm. 

“What was that for?” 

“You’re meant to make me look better than I am, not the same.” 

“Really?” Matt said, genuinely worried.

“No,” Foggy laughed, “I was joking. It’s really good. Really. Plus you seem genuinely happy when you’re making stuff. Maybe you should give up law and become an artist instead.”

“Yeah, right,” Matt said sarcastically.

“No, I’m serious. You can be all glamorous and host wild artist parties. I can be your wingman once more: the artist’s not-so-glamorous friend.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Fog.”

“Yeah, well in my head it does. Anyway, I’m going to go wash my face. This stuff is itchy.”

“Awww you’re not going to kiss me?” Matt teased.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you in your post-art zombie state,” he teased back. “Seriously, where do you go?”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t go anywhere. I just get lost in the moment I guess. I…it makes me … happy.” He said the last word as if the spell would be broken if he spoke it out loud.

“That’s a good thing, Matt. Stop with the Catholic guilt thing and make yourself happy.”

Matt looked deeply uneasy about the situation so Foggy changed the subject. “Who’s next then? Claire?”


	5. I don’t want to be an inspiration

Matt found four more willing models over the following week (Josie had unsurprisingly turned him down with a flat ‘no’, but a random guy sitting at the bar overheard and volunteered instead. Foggy insisted on supervising, despite Matt’s protestations otherwise). Matt had five of the six sculptures lined up on his lounge table, having moved the Foggy sculpture after he kept complaining about its ‘gaze’.

“But his eyes are closed,” Matt argued.

“I can still feel it looking at me though. It’s putting me off my dinner.”

“There’s a first,” Matt muttered facetiously. Foggy punched him jokingly in response.

“Watch out, one of these days I might punch back,” Matt laughed.

* * *

 

The lounge table head count was soon reduced to four after Foggy tripped over the rug one evening and toppled one of the sculptures. Karen suggested he get them fired.

"They're okay as is,” Matt said dismissively.

"Yes, but they're pretty delicate and they might crumble. If you fire clay objects they’re a lot more durable. I can’t guarantee they’ll survive Foggy, but they’ll have a better chance."

Matt looked unconvinced. He was a little embarrassed about the fuss Karen and Foggy had made about his sculptures. He just wanted to do it for fun, but now Karen was talking about longevity and the 'going to the pool room.' ("What's the pool room?" he'd asked. "It's a joke out of an Australian movie from the 90s - The Castle. We can watch it if you'd like. It’s hilarious. Foggy’s descriptions will be off the charts.") 

Naturally, Karen had pre-planned the whole process. She explained: "there's a community centre nearby that holds ceramics classes. They've agreed to fire them for you. You just need to make sure there are no air bubbles, do-"

"There aren't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. I can sense the density."

“Really? Even tiny ones?” Karen was still learning the extent of Matt’s abilities, and each reveal still seemed to stun her. When Matt nodded, she simply said, “alrighty. I'll take them in on Monday."

"You don't have to do that," Matt said, but he knew he’d already lost.

"It's fine. Don't do your martyr act."

That shut him up.

* * *

 

When Karen picked up Matt's now fired sculptures from the community centre, the technician grilled her about the objects’ maker.

"Hang on, you mean to tell me not only has he never worked with clay before, but he's also _blind_?" he exclaimed. "No way. How-? I mean, the likeness... it's incredible."

"He felt my face while sculpting." 

"They’re wonderful."

"I have a friend," he hesitated slightly. "…I have a friend who might be interested in these. She owns a gallery. I don't think it'd come to anything, but do you think your friend-" 

"Matt."

"…do you think Matt would mind if I told her about his work? Can I take a photo?"

"I don't think he'd mind," Karen lied. Matt would mind. He'd mind a lot.

* * *

 

Two days later, Karen answered her phone to a livid Matt.

"What did you think you were doing giving my name to art sharks?"

"What do you mean?" Karen tried to sound innocent.

"I just had this woman call me from some gallery. She heard I made what she called 'hyperrealistic sculptures' and that I was blind and wants to parade me around like a freak," Matt snapped.

"What? She said that?"

"No. Not in words."

"Then what?"

"She wants to show my work in her gallery."

"That's great.... isn't it?"

"No. She only wants to do it because I'm blind."

"You’re not exactly blind."

Matt growled. "Actually, that’s exactly what I am. Besides, you know what I mean."

"Well isn't that a good thing? You're always saying that people underestimate you because you're blind - that they have lower expectations. Your sculptures are really, really good. Why not put them out there and show people you don't need to be able to see _with your eyes_  to make good art."

"Ergh," Matt huffed, exasperated. "You don't understand."

"I do. More than you think. You have a chip on your shoulder and I totally understand why, but this is a good thing. You don't have to reject something simply because it's a positive, or it's fun. You don’t have to feel guilty about good fortune. You take the Catholic guilt thing way too far."

Damn. Karen had hit a nerve there. Matt stopped, angry, thoughts ticking over in his head.

"Like you’d know," he finally retorted. "Bye Karen". He hung up the phone. 

He paced up and down his living room for five minutes, fuming. How dare she share his work with other people. How dare she ruin what was an enjoyable and stress-free thing.

* * *

 

Matt was still pent up when Foggy came round for dinner.

“So this woman wants to exhibit and sell your art, throw you an opening party and celebrate your talent… and you think it’s a bad thing. What’s the problem exactly?”

“She wants to take advantage,” Matt spat back.

“Well don’t let her.”

“She wants me to sign a contract which ties me to her gallery. She assumes I’m a fool just because I’m blind.” Matt started pacing again.

“But you didn’t…” Foggy confirmed.

“Of course not. I’m not a fool.”

Foggy sighed. “I know,” he said softly. “What did the contract say?”

Matt stopped pacing and turned to Foggy, who was genuinely surprised at the drama. “Essentially the contract says that the gallery will promote and sell my work. Exhibitions will take place at the physical gallery and online at their discretion in return for a cut of 50% of all sales _plus_ a fee per exhibition. And I’m not allowed to sell or even _give away_ work without her permission.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair.” 

“That’s what I said, but apparently it’s a pretty standard agreement.”

“So the price tags you see in galleries – only half goes to the artist?”

“Sometimes less than that.”

Foggy considered the situation for a moment. “Did you ask if you could have a one-off exhibition?”

“No, I told her that I wasn’t interested, but that just seemed to make her _more_ enthusiastic. I just want to do this for fun, Foggy.”

“Yeah, I get that. But the money would be nice, eh?”

“If I sell anything,” Matt said cynically.

“What’s the gallery? I’ll look it up online.”

Foggy flicked through the artworks on the NOVA Gallery website. “You make better art than most of these people. Some of these sculptures are seriously wonky.”

“I think they’re meant to be wonky.”

“Naïve, Outsider, and Visionary Art”, he read out. “You definitely don’t fit into the vision category.”

“Vision _ary_ , Foggy. I don’t think it has anything to do with sight.”

“Well, you’re not _naïve_ – you proved that when you didn’t sign that contract. So does that mean you fit into the Outsider art category?”

“Yeah I guess. She said the gallery represents untrained artists. People who make artwork without outside influence.”

“But you went to the Met. You live in New York City. There’s art everywhere.”

“Yeah, but I reckon it’s because I’m blind. She just didn’t say that." 

“So that’s the problem? You don’t want attention drawn to your blindness?”

“She told me I was ‘an inspiration’,” Matt said bitterly.

“Well, you kinda are. You’ve inspired a whole heap of - what did Brett call them? ‘Devil worshippers’?”

Matt cringed.

“Plus you got me and Karen making some art. My clay worms are keepers.”

“You know what I mean,” Matt hissed, frustrated. “I don’t want to be an inspiration because of my blindness. I just do what I have to do.”

“Yeah I know.” Foggy was fully aware of Matt’s hang-ups about being called disabled, particularly when people called him ‘brave’ or ‘an inspiration’. “But do it on your own terms. Don’t sign that contract. Ask for a single exhibition –say that you’re not sure about the long-term commitment and you just want to try it or something. It’ll be fun and you’ll have something to work towards. Plus I get to go to a party as wingman to the famous artist.”

“I’m not famous, Foggy.” Matt laughed.

“Not famous _yet_ , my friend,” Foggy teased. “ _Yet_.”

He turned back to the gallery website and continued scrolling through the artist pages. “I don’t think the gallery is out to rip-off unsuspecting blind people, Matt. But if you’re unsure maybe we could visit. It’s not far from here. We’ll go this weekend.”

Matt was silent as he mulled it over.

“Hell, maybe _you’ll_ get inspired by other artists. We can go to the new Whitney while we’re in the area. See some more modern stuff.”

Matt perked up at that suggestion. “Okay. But just to look.”

“Great.” Foggy suddenly whistled in amazement. “Geez, this one costs twelve _thousand_ dollars! You’ll be rich.”

Matt just chuckled. “Not this again. It’s not about the money.” But Foggy just waved him off, rolling his eyes.


	6. How long before they discover I’m not an artist?

The following Saturday, Matt and Foggy spent the whole afternoon at NOVA. Matt grumbled a little on the walk to the gallery, but predictably switched on the charm as soon as they walked through the door. Foggy could never get over Matt’s ability to change his surface emotions so successfully at will.

The director, Kate Hall, welcomed them enthusiastically. Foggy kept glancing over at Matt trying to read any facial expression or mannerism that might indicate he’d detected a deceitful heartbeat, but Matt wasn’t giving anything away.

Kate explained that Matt wouldn’t be the only blind artist on the books, and offered to give them a hands-on tour of the stockroom.

“A number of my artists give permission for visitors to touch the artworks. I just need you to put on these gloves first though.” She handed Foggy and Matt some black latex gloves. “The gloves block a lot of the sensitivity in your fingertips, I know. But you can get a general feeling of the artworks’ form this way at least. I have a couple of textile sculptures that you can touch without gloves. Perhaps we’ll do that at the end.” Kate seemed to be completely in-tune with Matt’s extra-sensory preferences.

She led Matt over to a number of large pots decorated with raised text and coiled clay strands (‘like my worms,’ Foggy thought to himself). “I’ll show you the work of a ceramic artist first. He glazes only part of his sculptures, so you can feel the difference between the smooth upper and rougher lower sections. Have you considered glazing your work?”

The possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. He’d just done what Karen had instructed based on her school ceramics classes.

His feelings of inadequacy were growing stronger and stronger every minute. He wasn’t an artist. He was just playing. They’d find out sooner or later just what a fraud he was.

Matt shook his head. “No, I like them as is,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster.

“If you decide to exhibit with us, I’d love people to be able to touch your sculptures in the same way…. with gloves, of course. We get quite a few blind and visually impaired visitors to the gallery, and it’s nice to have some art available for people to experience whatever their abilities. What do you think?”

That last comment pretty much sold Matt on the idea of an exhibition, although he didn’t say that out loud. Regardless of his capacity to sense objects via means other than sight or touch, he appreciated the tactility of art and he knew he wasn’t alone.

Plus, contrary to Matt’s initial fears, Kate seemed genuine about her intentions and enthusiasm. She didn’t talk down to him or defer to Foggy (as many people did, assuming Foggy was his ‘carer’). Matt wasn’t sure how to interpret the situation. He was so prepared to dislike the woman, the gallery, the art world in general, and prove to Foggy that Kate was out to take advantage of people with disabilities. But instead, he found himself relaxing into Kate’s tour. His forced charm soon turned into a more natural one.

“Have you been working on anything other than the sculptures?”, Kate asked as they were feeling the raised marks on a deliberately tactile painting made by another blind artist.

Matt hadn’t showed anyone yet, but ever since the Met workshop, he’d been sketching the objects around his apartment. He discovered that if he laid the paper on a soft surface while drawing, the marks could be easily traced by touch.

“I have some drawings,” he said nervously.

“That’s great. Do you think I could see them?”

Foggy chimed in, “his drawings are incredible. The guy at the Met was totally blown away.”

“The Met?”

“We did a drawing workshop there recently. That’s what started this whole thing.”

“Ah, you must have taken one of Will’s workshops.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, we used to work together. I used to take those workshops too before staring my own business.”

“There you go,” Foggy said, giving Matt a small poke. Matt looked slightly annoyed at Foggy’s interruption and obvious enthusiasm. He was still playing it cautious and didn’t want to show his hand just yet. “I still need to think about the exhibition further,” Matt said crisply.

Kate looked disappointed. She was sure she’d convinced him up till that point. But she merely said, “that’s okay. Let me know soon so we can pencil you into the calendar if need be. Regardless of your decision, I’d love to see your drawings if possible. Give me a call and I can come to you, or you could bring them here.”

“Will do. Thank you for your time, and the tour of your gallery,” Matt said in a distant, business-like manner.

* * *

 

“I guess it’s too late for the Whitney,” Matt said to Foggy on exiting the gallery.

Foggy interrupted. “What was with the sudden iceman impression at the end?”

“Iceman?”

“Yeah, when your famous Matthew Murdock charm starts to freeze over. You seemed peeved about something.”

“Not peeved, Foggy. I’m just worried, that’s all.”

“About what _now_?”

“How long before they discover I’m not an artist? I mean I only did a couple of sculptures and she hasn’t even _seen_ the drawings, and already she’s talking about exhibitions, and collections, and-”

“Stop right there.”

Matt took Foggy’s direction a little too literally and stopped dead in the street.

“Just enjoy the now. Have a show, enjoy it, enjoy making art, enjoy the party, whatever… This art thing has got you out of the funk you were in, and I’ve enjoyed seeing you make things, and occasionally joining in.” He paused to think. “Besides, I know my worms are no masterpiece, but this whole thing is enjoyable for me too.”

“For you?”

“Yes, Matt,” Foggy rolled his eyes. “For me. I’m probably being a bit pushy, and if you really don’t want to, you don’t have to do the show. But I think deep down you do.”

“Where are you leading me anyway?” Matt asked, suddenly realising he was so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed the change in direction. He tilted his head a little, trying to get his bearings.

“You’ll see.”

They walked a little further before Foggy stopped and pulled Matt towards a shopfront. “In here.”

They opened the door to an assault of smells, some of them familiar and warming, some of them chemical and deeply unpleasant. Linseed oil, turps, oil paint, fixative, paper, wood, resin… Matt stopped and tried to reorient himself, overwhelmed by the scent.

“What’s wrong?” Foggy asked, concerned at Matt’s reaction.

“Why are we in an art supply shop?”

“I thought we could get you some proper paper. Maybe some new pencils.”

Matt sighed. “How do you know I haven’t got proper paper already?”

“Dude, I hate to tell you, but that high shelf where you keep your first aid kit is not a hiding place, particularly when you have a klutz of a friend who regularly steals your bandaids. I could see your drawings plain as day.” Matt made a mental note to file his work in his bedroom cupboard next time.

Foggy continued, “they’re done on the discount office paper we bought in bulk last year. It was yellowing before we’d even got it out of the box. Not exactly archival material.”

The shop attendant interrupted, “can I help you with anything?”

“We’re just looking, thanks,” Matt said to the confused woman who looked at his cane and then at Foggy, taking his words a little too literally.

“Yes, we’re looking for some paper,” Foggy said, ignoring Matt.

“Sure, I’ll show you what we have. Do you want it for painting, drawing, printmaking-?”

“Drawing.”

“Do you use charcoal, graphite, felt tips, pastels, oil sticks, pen and ink-?’

“Er, I don’t know. What do you want to use, Matt?”

Matt shrugged, overwhelmed by the choices and not really wanting to explain that he didn’t know what the difference was between all those things.

“Maybe you could show us the pencils… or pens… too?” Foggy asked, equally as intimidated.

“Sure. Do you prefer textured or smooth surfaces?”, she asked, leading them over to the racks of paper.

“Something soft,” Matt jumped in. “Something that allows me to make marks I can feel.”

The attendant was pleased they were finally getting somewhere, and directed Matt’s hand to a couple of options. “Feel this one. It’s quite thick, but it’d be easy to make heavy indents with a graphite pencil. Or you could even use an object just to make the indents without any visible marks.”

Matt hadn’t really thought about that option. Making drawings that you could only ‘see’ through touch. He just nodded, and filed that idea away for later.

“Alternatively, you could work with this thin metal. We have special tools you use to create marks and patterns in the metal. The marks are visible to the eye, but also through touch.”

“What do you think, Matt?” Foggy prompted. “This is my treat so we can get both if you’d like.”

“That’s not necessary, Fog.”

“I know. But if I’m going to earn shark money, I might as well spend it on something nice. Besides, you’re going to draw me a beer bottle in exchange. It’ll be worth more than these materials once you’re famous, so really, I’ll come out on top.”

Matt chuckled at Foggy’s persuasiveness. “Always a lawyer.”

“Excellent,” Foggy said enthusiastically, taking Matt’s response as a yes.

Matt couldn’t see the price tags as their selections were made, and Foggy was glad of that. The paper in particular was not cheap. Foggy interrupted the attendant just as she was about to announce the total, handing over his shiny new bankcard instead. He didn’t want Matt feeling guilty or awkward about the cost.

Foggy hadn’t lied. The money he was earning at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz still amazed him. He remained in the same tiny apartment he’d rented throughout the relatively low-paid Nelson & Murdock era, and he didn’t really go out much save for the dinner dates with Matt and the occasional visit to Josie’s with Matt and Karen. As a result, his savings account was steadily growing. So while this purchase might have been a big deal for Foggy a few months ago, it was now a drop in the ocean. Part of him acknowledged it was a little self-indulgent, but he enjoyed doing this for Matt. Most of all, he hoped the art making would keep Matt from deviating back onto the path of self-destruction.

“What do you want to do now?” Foggy asked Matt as they left the shop carrying a bag each and a tube of rolled up paper. “A sneaky session at Josie’s? Or do you want to go home and try out your new paper?”

“Home, definitely.” Matt smiled. “Thanks, Foggy. It’s very kind. You didn’t-”

“Yeah I know. Shhhhh.”

“Come back with me? We can both give that beer bottle drawing a go.” Matt suspected that Foggy’s dinner dates, art trips and now these purchases, were just as important to Foggy as they were to him. He didn’t say anything, but he knew nothing would make Foggy happier than to spend the night drawing with him over a beer and takeout.

They laughingly agreed that in order to draw a beer bottle or two, they needed the ‘models’ so they went back to Matt’s via the liquor store. They spent the evening drawing on the lush new paper, and comparing their different approaches to the oh-so-regal subject. Foggy was glad Matt couldn’t see his work, even if he could feel it with his super fingertips just as well.

Foggy knew he was never going to get whole perspective thing, and he was a little jealous that Matt didn’t even _care_ about perspective. Matt appeared to relax into creative expression so easily, interpreting each object’s form in a completely non-visual way. He seemed freed from the stranglehold of mimetic representation that made Foggy so uptight and self-conscious.

Later that night, just as Foggy was heading out the door, Matt hesitated a little then said, “I’m going to accept the offer… the exhibition. Thanks, Foggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and now that I've posted this chapter I'm off to a friend's place to draw and drink beer on this warm Saturday afternoon. Inspiration starts close to home (;


	7. It's not exactly Daredevil material

At Foggy's insistence, Matt hosted a dinner at his place for the 'great unwrapping' (Foggy's words) of the exhibition invites. He'd been sent a small box of invitations to distribute to friends and family ahead of the exhibition. It was a small affair - just Matt, Foggy, Karen and, surprisingly enough, Claire.

Karen had been bugging Matt to introduce her to Claire ever since she'd found out that this mysterious woman was the first person to learn Daredevil's identity. Matt liked to compartmentalise his life and was pretty reluctant at first, but Karen tended to get her way sooner or later, and he finally relented. Claire was equally as cautious, but she was curious about Matt's new creative obsession and ultimately agreed to join them.

"I can't believe this is happening," Karen said as they gathered round the box, glasses of sparkling wine in hand (courtesy of Foggy). Matt couldn't quite believe it either. He'd been surprised at how quickly the exhibition had come around. A gap had opened up in the calendar, and despite juggling freelance work, his Daredevil activities, and art making, he'd been incredibly prolific. He now had a sizeable body of work that could easily fill the gallery space.

Matt opened the box to a collective "ooooh". Running his fingers across the braille print, he couldn't help but feel an incredible sense of happiness and pride. Unfortunately it was somewhat tempered by his uncertainty about what his father would say if he knew he'd become an artist.

Foggy was a little puzzled by Matt's silence. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Matt tried to make his voice as neutral as possible. "Did they spell Matthew with two 't's in ink?"

"Yeah, why? Did they spell it wrong in braille?"

"No... just checking."

Foggy looked a little puzzled at Matt's diversionary comment.

"It's great that they printed them in braille," Karen said, filling the awkward silence.

"Well so they should," Foggy grumbled. "The artist has to be able to read his own invite."

"But you can feel regular print, right?", Karen said.

"With difficulty," Matt corrected. "These invites have a weird coating though so I can't distinguish it at all."

Foggy described the printed surface to Matt: “it has a detail of one of your drawings. The salt and pepper shakers I think. The ink text is in a blank space in the corner. The braille is over the top of the entire image of course. I guess they wouldn't have been able to print it smaller. The bumpy texture kinda suits your work.” Foggy ran his fingers over the braille print, recognising Matt’s name from that time he tried to learn braille. “It looks great. I can’t believe I’m best friends with a famous artist.”

“I’m no-”

“Yeah, yeah I know. Not famous. Let’s wait and see. Anyway, here’s a cheers to the not-famous-yet artist!” Foggy raised his glass.

Matt kept running his fingers over the braille text, his head down as if looking at the card.

"You should show Claire and Karen your drawings," Foggy said, attempting to engage Matt.

"Ooh yes," Karen said.

"Matt got out his old manual braille thingy to type the title on the bottom of the smaller drawings," Foggy explained. "It gives it that something extra."

Matt chuckled. Foggy had always been intrigued by Matt's ancient braille writer from his childhood. At college, Matt would occasionally type out notes for himself manually if he was tired or couldn't be bothered getting out his computer.

"It so cute. How come I've never seen you use this?", Karen asked, after Foggy had insisted Matt bring it out to show the others.

“I don’t have much need for it nowadays. I type most of my work up on a computer. I sometimes use a stylus to punch out short notes as you know, but more often use the voice memo app on my phone. Phones are harder to misplace than a piece of paper."

"Huh. Of course."

Even though computers had created whole set of new barriers, Matt had to admit that technology had ultimately made things so much easier for him. That said, the heavy old braille writer still had its place, even if it did seem quite retro now. Occasionally he considered donating it to the local blind association. The machines weren’t cheap and they were often still used by children learning to read and write braille. However, he clung onto it through nostalgia. His dad had scraped together the money to buy an old secondhand machine for him shortly after the accident, and he wasn’t ready to part with it just yet.

He ran his hands over the machine affectionately, and Karen suddenly noticed his cracked, red hands.

“Matt, your hands!”

He drew his hands away, self-conscious.

“The clay on those scrapes must hurt.”

“I haven’t really noticed it,” Matt said.

In the meantime, Foggy had wandered over to the sideboard to examine Matt’s latest sculpture. “Is that Fran?”, he said in a mock-scandalised tone. “You gave your elderly neighbour the Matt Murdock sculpting experience?!”

Before Matt could bite back, however, Foggy exclaimed, “dude, you have blood on your sculpture! What the hell?”

Claire took one of Matt’s hands in hers. “Your hands _are_ looking pretty rough. Is that the clay or Daredevilling?”

Matt looked a bit sheepish. “A bit of both.”

Scraped hands were a fairly regular consequence of his Daredevil activities. Even with gloves, his hands took a toll. What he hadn’t expected was that the clay dried out his hands, leaving them brittle and a little raw. It wasn’t the most pleasant combination.

Claire pulled out a tube of moisturising antiseptic cream for Matt’s hands, and Karen watched critically as she rubbed the cream into his fingers. Foggy looked from Karen to Matt to Claire and back to Karen, trying to assess the situation. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea introducing the two women, even though they’d both clearly stated their desire not to get romantically involved with Matt.

Foggy cleared his throat. “So, Claire, what are you doing now that you’re not at Metro General? Have you moved to another hospital?”

“No, I’m sort of in a transition period. I’ve moved back to Harlem for a bit. Been stitching up another guy. I should really start charging, “ she joked.

Matt looked awkward and pulled his hand away.

Foggy typed out something on his phone and showed it to Karen, who laughed.

 

 

> _“I think their relationship is based on some kind of medical fetishism. It’s a bit weird.”_

“What?”, Matt and Claire said in unison, feeling left out.

“Nothing,” Karen said, biting her lip.

“Kitten meme,” Foggy added.

* * *

 

The tension started to clear after a few more drinks, and even more so after dinner was served. Matt had cooked a spinach and ricotta lasagne for the occasion. After a mouthful, Karen groaned with pleasure and said, “this is incredible, Matt. I thought you said you didn’t cook.”

Matt shrugged. “I just followed the recipe online.”

“Yeah, but you’ve said many times over that you can’t cook to save yourself. You usually only have beer and milk in the fridge.”

“I didn’t want to explain how I sense when something is crisp and browned. That’s all.”

“So all these years you’ve not cooked just to keep up some kind of misplaced notion of appearances? That seems a bit miserable.”

“That and the fact that the whole apartment smells for days afterwards. I never cook meat for that reason.”

“Depends how much blood came off your fingers while you were cooking. I hope no one here’s vegetarian,” Foggy chimed in.

“Gross, Foggy,” Karen moaned.

“Anyway, enough of the confessions,” Foggy said. “Let’s toast to Matt and his new career.”

Matt sighed. “It’s not a career, Foggy. And we’ve had enough toasts.”

“Shhhh… just raise your glass.”

* * *

 

Claire excused herself not long after dinner after Karen produced a bottle of whiskey. "I don't think I can keep up with you drinkers,” she said wryly. She squeezed Matt’s shoulder affectionately as she left. Foggy instinctively looked at Karen to gauge her reaction (only a slight glare).

A couple of glasses of whiskey later, Foggy declared he needed to go to the bathroom. “We don’t need an announcement every time,” Matt pointed out, and Foggy responded by throwing a cushion hard at Matt’s head. Karen watched wide eyed as he effortlessly caught it. She immediately threw a pen in his direction too, which Matt caught again. She thought for a moment then chucked another cushion across the room, and Matt threw himself sideways, catching it in a roll, just as it was about to hit the floor.

“That’s incredible,” Karen said. “Will you do that backflip for me now?”

Matt laughed. “Not a chance. I think I’ve had a few too many drinks for that.”

“He can hit 8 objects with a beer top before getting it into the trash,” Foggy said with a hint of pride in his voice. “Show her, Matt.”

“We’ve run out of beer,” Matt said, keen to change the subject through any excuse necessary.

While Foggy was in the bathroom, Karen whispered to Matt, "before I forget, I need Daredevil's help with something. Can we chat tomorrow?"

"Why not now?" Matt answered at his regular speaking volume.

"Foggy," Karen whispered again, gesturing at the bathroom.

"I thought you two were Nancy Drew sleuths together-"

"What are we Nancy Drewing?" Foggy interrupted, doing up his fly as he rounded the corner.

"Foggy, ew..." 

Foggy just shrugged at Karen's judgement and repeated his question.

"Karen wants Daredevil's help," Matt said.

"Maybe Karen should wait till Daredevil's sober," Foggy pointed out. Matt was usually a lot more secretive and cryptic than this, even with Foggy and Karen knowing his secret.

"No, tell me," Matt insisted, looking amused. He leaned back against the couch and gave Karen a wicked grin - a Daredevilesque grin.

Karen now regretted bringing up the subject. Alcohol and decision-making never mixed well. "I don't know... Foggy, you don't want to know..."

"I do  _now_ ," he said, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

"Well, you know how I got you to assess those sculptures at the Met?"

"They were memorable occasions, yes."

"Occasions?" Foggy chimed in. "You returned without me?"

"You were in your lofty shark tower that day, Fog," Matt teased.

Karen explained to Foggy: "there was a bronze Etruscan chariot sculpture rumoured to be a fake. But Matt said it's real."

Matt nodded.

"Anyway, I think there's something a bit suss about the woman who I interviewed about the whole forgery thing. She's got a small advisory and authentication business, and she seemed so sure they were fake that I wonder if there's something else going on."

"So why do you need Daredevil?"

"I need... why are you speaking about yourself in the third person?"

"I'm not," he said, waving her off. "Why do you need Daredevil?"

"Ergh, you're weird. I need  _Daredevil_ to help me break into her office and get some files."

"That sounds more like a Karen Page kind of move," Foggy quipped. “Let me see, there was the time you broke into Frank Castle’s family house in the midst of his murderous rampage...”

“And that time you stole those files from the DA,” Matt chimed in.

“He gave me those files,” Karen said.

“Only some of them,” Foggy corrected.

“There was the Union Allied file-“

“And the clippings from _The Bulletin_ -“

Karen interrupted. “No, those were legitimately borrowed.”

"Anyway, why do you need Daredevil?", Matt repeated. "Foggy's right. You’re great at breaking into places. And I hate to tell you, but quickly sorting through printed files is not exactly Daredevil’s forte."

"I'd come with you."

Matt sighed. "It's also a bit meh.”

" _Meh_? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, it's not exactly Daredevil material."

"Because it doesn't involve hitting people?" 

"No, it's just... how does it help people? I mean, the artworks are real. There’s no evidence of smuggling or forgery. All you have is a bunch of rumours, which aren’t really hurting anyone.”

Matt wasn't entirely telling the truth at this point. He was vaguely interested in the whole affair, and he enjoyed his visits with Karen to the museum. Plus, he knew that the rumours had cast doubt on the authenticity of a number of other works at the museum. However, Daredevil didn't really play well with others. His disastrous collaboration with Elektra had proven that once and for all. He didn’t want to team up with anyone, least of all Karen.

But as per usual, Karen refused to back down. Matt eventually said, "how about I just accompany you to a second interview. I can figure out if she's telling the truth or not."

"You - as in Matt?"

"Yes. Do you now see why the third person makes things easier?"

Karen rolled her eyes.

"Excellent." Foggy clapped his hands. "Now that that's resolved, who wants another round?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a real fascination with art forgeries. The forgery saga mentioned in this chapter is drawn from a true story: about 10 years ago there were rumours that a Bronze Etruscan chariot at the Met was a fake. Ultimately it was disproven.


	8. I want you to leave your mark first

Foggy insisted on a preview of Matt’s exhibition before the opening the following evening. “I’ll be your eyes…let you know if they’re painting the walls red or something.”

“I don’t really care about the colours,” Matt said facetiously.

The exhibition had been fairly easy to install. The sculptures were on plinths, and to Matt’s delight, Kate had insisted on framing the drawings without glass so people could still feel the surface texture if they wanted to (“once the buyers have taken them home,” she stressed). It was a tricky balance: on one hand Matt made them as tactile objects and Kate understood the importance of touch to Matt, gallery visitors, and prospective buyers; but on the other hand, the drawings were highly susceptible to greasy fingerprints and smudged graphite. In the end, Matt offered a couple of ‘sacrificial’ drawings that could be touched without restriction throughout the exhibition. “And you never know,” Matt joked, “if we get some really famous artists touching the work during the show, perhaps we could label it a collaboration and raise the price.”

Matt pointed Foggy towards the sacrificial drawings. “You can be the first to touch them.”

Foggy scrunched up his face in confusion. “I’ve already touched them. I helped you transport them, remember.”

“Oh yeah. Well, touch them again. I want you to leave your mark first.”

“You want a dirty mark on your clean white drawing?”

“Yeah, a little bit. It’s a work in progress. All the visitors contribute to the final artwork by leaving a bit of themselves behind.”

“Like skin flakes?”

“Exactly.”

Foggy raised his eyebrows but silently complied, lightly running his fingers over the paper.

“What now?” Foggy said. “Is there anything else that needs doing?”

“No, I think everything’s done,” said Matt, with a satisfied sigh. “Unless you disapprove of the wall colour.”

“The pink is a bit garish,” Foggy said.

Matt laughed. “Nice try.”

* * *

 

They decided to have a quick celebratory beer at Josie’s afterwards. Foggy had picked up the artwork list on the way out, and read it out loud as they walked. “ _Salt and Pepper Shakers, Beer Bottle, Toothbrush_ … they’re rather boring titles, Matt. Why didn’t you choose something like _The Liminality of Being_ or _The Existential Grief of Document Review_?”

Matt grinned. “I guess I don’t have the imagination.”

“Maybe exciting titles command higher prices. Your sculptures aren’t $12,000 like that one on the website.”

“Did you expect them to be?”

“As an hourly rate, you’d be better off doing temp document review.”

“I don’t think you can compare the two activities, Fog.” Matt laughed.

“True. Document review doesn’t get you laid.”

“Shhhhhh… that’s a terrible thing to say.”

“No really, I read this theory the other day… it explains why you’re so good at art. It’s further proof that you’re like a sexual savant in every way.”

Matt groaned. “This again?”

“Just listen,” Foggy demanded. “Apparently people are sexually attracted to artists. That’s what this guy says anyway… actually, I think he says _women_ are attracted to artists… or something.”

“So all those men who buy flashy cars in the hope of attracting women are-”

“Absolute fools. Yeah, they should have just picked up a paintbrush instead,” Foggy said teasingly.

“You know I don’t actually…”

“Sleep around?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“Well I know it’s not your Catholicism. You broke that rule many times over at college. But nowadays I guess you spend your evenings beating up bad guys instead.”

Matt laughed. “Pretty much.”

“So Karen was…?”

“The last woman I kissed.” Matt went to clarify the statement, hesitated with a huff, and went silent.

They walked a block in awkward silence. Eventually Foggy said, “speaking of Karen, did you two ever visit the art appraiser?”

“No, I think Karen just wanted to hang out with me as Daredevil. Once I agreed to go in my suit and tie, she lost interest. As you and I both pointed out, she’s more than capable of breaking into an office and she knows it.”

“So that’s it?”

“No.” Matt lowered his voice a little. “I went to the appraiser’s office the other afternoon.”

“You met with her without Karen?”

“No, I just stood outside, listening.”

“Your creepy statue thing.”

“No, it wasn’t that. And don’t call it creepy,” Matt said indignantly. “You only think it’s weird because you’re used to seeing everyone else pass time by looking at their phones.” He turned to Foggy with a wry smile. “I don’t have that luxury.”

They walked into the dark, dank bar and sat with their beers in their favourite corner table. “So did you find anything out?”

“Not really. But Karen’s right. There’s something odd about her confidence, her methods.”

“Maybe she’s just good at her job.”

“Maybe. But seemed awfully sure about the Met artworks being fake, even though she didn’t actually handle them in person. I overheard a number of phone and in-person consultations-”

“A number? How long were you there for?”

Matt shrugged. “A while. I didn’t really have anywhere to be.”

“Nice for some,” Foggy grumbled.

“Anyway, she mentioned she was an expert advisor for the Met in every single consultation.”

“So?”

“Well, she was never actually engaged by the Met. And as I said, she never handled the works. The chariot is kept in a glass case.”

“And you know this how?”

“Well, apart from the press releases-”

“The Met’s press people might be lying.”

“Exactly, but I’ve been chatting to Will-”

“The workshop guy?”

“Yeah, anyway, he introduced me to some of the conservation staff awhile back. And I might have casually brought it up over a cup of coffee.”

“Gee, you _have_ been busy.”

“Well, it’s more interesting than the freelance work I’m doing. Anyway, I had a chat to one of the conservation staff, and they definitely weren’t lying when they said she hadn’t seen the work. They were understandably really concerned about the claims. It affects their reputation.”

“Of course. So what now?”

Matt picked at the label on his beer. “I guess I should tell Karen…”

“But the prospect makes you nervous,” Foggy guessed. “Come on, Matt. You’ll take on a fucking ninja without a second thought, but you’re scared of what Karen will say if she knows you went snooping on your own?”

Matt shrugged and smiled slightly. Foggy knew him too well.

“That’s your battle, man. I’ll leave you to it.” Foggy stood up to get them another round, leaving Matt with his thoughts.

He placed the bottle next to Matt’s left hand. “Just to the left of your left,” he said out of habit.

“Thanks, Foggy.”

“So what now? Your exhibition is hung. Do you keep drawing?”

“Of course… And I’ve been helping Will out with some workshops.”

“You’re working at the Met?”

“No, just volunteering. It’s not an official thing. It just makes me feel a bit more useful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I dunno. Art. It’s not really helping people in the same way law does,” Matt said with a sigh.

“Pfft. It makes you happy and I’m sure people will enjoy the exhibition.” Foggy paused, not wanting to mention that Matt was still taking down bad guys at night – he still wasn’t completely at peace with Matt’s other method of ‘helping people’. “Plus your art is really interesting. It’s definitely made _me_ see everyday objects in a completely different way.”

“I don’t really want to go tomorrow night,” Matt said in a whisper.

“To your party?”

“It’s not a party, Foggy. It’s an opening. And it won’t be fun. There will be people asking questions, speeches, attention-”

“Because you’ve never been the centre of attention, Mr Kills-it-on-the-courtroom-floor,” Foggy said sarcastically.

“That’s different. I know the courtroom. I feel like I have some control.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. Matt always had to be in control. Always. “You’ll be fine. Just be your most charming self, and people will be dazzled into buying your work.”

Matt looked a bit offended, so Foggy added, “that was a joke. They’ll like it on it’s own merit. But seriously, don’t you dare skip out on the opening.”

 


	9. The exhibition opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: this chapter contains a fuckload of art wank in the form of an art opening speech. It serves a purpose. I promise I won't do it to you again xo

The noise levels grew as the gallery filled with people. Overwhelmed, Matt stood in the corner, hoping that Foggy would turn up soon. With his cane and glasses, he was easily identifiable as the artist, thanks to the blurb near the door that had far more biographical information than Matt was comfortable with. Kate had insisted on referencing his blindness, pointing out how it was integral to his process, his interpretation of the world around him, his chosen materials, and the resulting forms.

To the observer, Matt excelled at small talk. He seemed confident, warm, and exceedingly polite. But inwardly Matt loathed it. When he was a teenager, Edith -an elderly volunteer at the local blind society - would take him on occasional outings every month or so. She stressed that to overcome people’s assumptions about his disability, he had to try extra hard to appear confident and intelligent. While Matt acknowledged that the premise was based on Edith’s own prejudices, he nonetheless had benefited from her ‘etiquette’ lessons.

A woman who smelled of a mixture of Chanel No 5, tobacco, peppermint and cat approached him. “Lovely work, Matthew. I particularly like the drawings where your marks are textural, but almost invisible to the eye.”

“Thank you very much-”

“Susan. Susan Ley.”

Matt smiled. “Thank you, Susan. Are you an artist yourself?”

“Oh no. I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I enjoy experiencing other people’s art though.”

Another person interrupted, "Matthew Murdock. How nice to see you again. Professor Andrew Douglas - I taught you criminal law at Columbia."

"I remember," Matt said, smiling, holding out his hand. "It's nice to meet you again too, Professor Douglas." 

"Please call me Andrew."

"Andrew," Matt repeated.

Matt remembered the enthusiasm with which the man had taught the subject. It was probably one of the reasons he became a defence attorney in the first place. Matt enjoyed the professor's voice. He was British and had an accent that made him sound more intimidating than he deserved. He always sounded so strong and commanding, and Matt had long tried to emulate that same confidence in the courtroom.

"What are you up to at the moment? I heard you had your own business with a fellow student, Mr Nelson."

"You heard of us?" Matt was bowled over that his favourite teacher had heard of their tiny firm. Their tiny, _former_ firm. It still hurt to think about that particular failure.

"Of course. You helped take down Wilson Fisk. How could I not."

"We just closed our office actually. Foggy, I mean Franklin... sorry, I call him Foggy... has gone to work at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz". Matt paused, not wanting to elaborate on his own situation.

"And you?"

Damn. "I'm between jobs I'm afraid. I'm just doing some temp document review and discovery for another small company."

"What a shame. You were one of my most gifted students."

Matt didn't really know what to say to that. Did he praise the professor in return? Telling him that he was the reason he’d pursued defence in the first place would probably seem hollow – a comment made out of politeness.

After an awkward silence Andrew asked, "have you ever thought of working in higher education?"

"I hadn't considered it, no."

"I'm looking for a research assistant at the moment. Just on a casual basis. With your experience in criminal law, you'd be perfect for the job. So many academics don't have professional experience – or at least recent experience - in the areas they're researching. It'd be good to have a fresh perspective. What do you think?"

Matt smiled. "I think I'd enjoy that very much." Anything to get away from document review, he thought. 

"Excellent. Here's my card," he said before realising that a business card probably wasn’t much use to Matt. "Do you have a phone handy? Maybe I could put it in the address book for you." 

"Just read it out for me. I'll add it now," Matt said, pulling out his phone.

"If you’re free Monday, let’s meet up and discuss it further. My colleagues will have to rubber stamp the appointment, but I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Thank you, Andrew,” Matt said warmly, holding out his hand. “Thank you very much.”

* * *

 

"You're going to be a professor?!" Foggy exclaimed when Matt told him about the offer.

"No, of course not. I'm just assisting Professor Douglas with some research."

"Yeah, but still. That's great. You don't have to do bottom feeder work anymore."

"That's a terrible thing to say, Foggy."

"Oh come on. It is. You hate document review, and it's totally beneath you."

"’Bottom feeder’ is a horrible phrase. Where did you get that anyway?"

"Well, it suits a horrible task," Foggy snapped back. "It was the name of an artwork I saw while researching this gallery online. It reminded me of some of the lawyers we know, so it kind of stuck in my head. Anyway, back to the job offer…you get to go back to our old stomping ground! I wonder if it's changed much."

"We've only been gone a short while. It's probably exactly the same."

"Yeah I guess. I'll come with and visit you and we can relive the good old times when things were simple, and we were innocent."

Matt laughed. " _Were_ innocent? I'm still innocent. I don't know about you…"

"Pfft. You're hardly innocent."

Matt poked him jokingly.

“Anyway, it’s nice to see you in a suit again. Although don’t get me wrong, you look great in sweats,” Foggy said dryly.

Matt leaned towards Foggy and whispered, “am I overdressed? I wasn’t sure what people wear to these things.”

“Not at all. You look great. Love the waistcoat in particular.”

Matt blushed. “You’re lying about at least one of those things.”

“You can hear my heartbeat over this din?” Foggy said incredulously. “It’s louder than Josie’s on a Saturday night.”

“What are people wearing then?”

“Pretty much everything from smart casual through to ripped jeans and paint-covered hoodies. Seriously, you look great. Super handsome in fact. I’m not lying about that. Or the waistcoat.”

Karen pushed her way through the crowd of wine-sipping gallery goers. "Did you know that only 5 of the 35 artists represented by this gallery are women?" she said bitterly.

"It's nice to see you too," Foggy responded. 

"No really. I’m sure they could find at least a few more female artists," Karen insisted.

"You have a point", Matt agreed. “Maybe-“

“Matthew,” Kate called as she spotted him in the corner. “Come over here. I want to give the speech and I want you up here next to me.”

“Of course,” Matt gave Kate his widest smile. Foggy unintentionally snorted in laughter at what he knew was Matt’s false enthusiasm.

“Go dazzle them,” Foggy said in such a low whisper that it was only audible to Matt.

Kate led Matt over to his ‘sacrificial’ drawings and tapped her bracelet on her champagne glass to announce the speech. The room fell silent apart from a couple of murmured conversations, a cough, and the odd click of a camera. Matt could just pick out Foggy’s heartbeat in the opposite corner, and he heard Karen whisper, “gee he looks good in a waistcoat.” Matt genuinely smiled at her comment, and heard her hastily say, “could he hear that?” Foggy didn’t say anything in return, and Matt guessed Karen would have been on the receiving end of a withering look. Matt could hear a heartbeat across the room for goodness sake. Of course he could hear a whispered conversation in a quiet room.

“We’re here today to celebrate Matthew’s first art exhibition. No doubt you’ve independently come to the conclusion that he has an extraordinary talent as a maker, not to mention his capacity to communicate a unique view of the world.”

Matt stood next to Kate, expressionless, hands gripping his cane. He could feel all the eyes on him, but couldn’t return the gaze. Standing silent - the object of the speech but not the deliverer - was a very different experience to his courtroom performances. It was unnerving.

Kate continued. “On first glance, Matthew’s sculptures and drawings appear as if they could be produced by two very different artists: his sculptures are highly figurative, whereas his drawings are abstracted representations of objects in a world without light. The sculptures are mimetic representations of some of his closest friends. They capture the sitters’ minute facial features, but most importantly, a human essence as well. Nowadays, people often speak of the end of representational sculpture. They point to technologies such as 3D printing, and ask ‘what’s the point?’ But then people said that of painting too when photography was invented.”

A number of people throughout the gallery murmured in agreement.

Kate pointed to the nearby sculpture of Fran. “Matthew’s sculptural portraits are more than just reproductions - they subtly capture the humanity in each sitter. And I think this comes down to the method of production. As you’ve probably gleaned, Matthew is blind and has been since he was 9 years old.”

Matt cringed ever so slightly, hoping that she wouldn’t go into his full life story. Fortunately Kate immediately returned to the subject of his art.

“As a result, he can’t see his subject, so instead, he feels them. It’s a highly intimate process that results in equally intimate representations. The faces depicted in Matthew’s sculptures are peaceful, quiet, non-threatening – attributes echoed in the artist’s own gentle disposition.”

Matt could hear Foggy and Karen quietly snigger, but didn’t react.

“What stands out for me is the fact that each subject has his or her eyes closed. Now, this is probably a practical measure – I imagine it’d be quite nasty to get clay in one’s eye. But we can also interpret this element as a reflection of Matthew’s own unseeing eyes. He cannot _visually see_ the sculpture, and it cannot return the gaze.”

Matt had never considered the reason he’d created the sculptures with closed eyes. It had been an unconscious decision. He shifted awkwardly at Kate’s analysis. He didn’t deserve the credit.

“Matthew’s drawings, on the other hand, depict objects in a more abstracted way,” Kate continued, gesturing at the adjacent drawing of Foggy’s beer bottle. “Matthew doesn’t seek to represent form through the illusion of light and colour. He does not play with perspective from a fixed point.”

Matt shifted a little, head down, increasingly embarrassed by the public praise.

“This rejection of imitation through illusionistic means is not unique in itself. It’s been the driving force for most of our most well-known artists over the last century or so. Picasso and Braque’s art dealer, Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, wrote of this very challenge facing the two artists during their Cubist period. He pointed out that ‘light is never more than a means to create form.’ Shading and colour ‘can provide only an illusion of the form of objects’. But while no object is _visible_ without light, it can still be touched. In the real world, the object is still there once the light has been turned off. We also still have a memory of the object. So how do we best describe this experience on a piece of paper or canvas?”

“Now, Picasso and Braque’s experiments in Cubism occurred over one hundred years ago. Since then, artists have developed so many new and novel ways of describing the world around us. In turn, it has forced us _viewers_ to consider alternative ways of looking at the world. Art is wonderful like that.”

“So what’s the most _truthful_ way of describing an object on a two-dimensional surface? Instead of a photograph-like rendition, how can we best represent the experience of interacting with that object in real life? When drawing a beer bottle, how can we describe the smell, the taste, the temperature… or even the effects of drinking the contents?”

A number of people laughed.

“Someone pointed out to me earlier that as someone who can’t see, Matthew would probably find it quite tricky to draw an object mimetically, even if he wanted to.”

Kate looked at Matt as he shrugged a little shyly.

“But I don’t think it matters whether he can or can’t. What matters is that a mimetic rendition is not particularly meaningful to him. It doesn’t reflect how he interacts with objects in the real world. And that’s why these drawings are so fascinating: they so creatively communicate a unique interpretation – _Matthew’s_ interpretation - of the physical world. In these drawings, objects are described in terms of their density, their physical patterning or surface texture, their function, their weight, and so on.”

Kate gestured towards Matt. “It’s also notable that the artist himself accesses his work quite differently to the seeing viewer. The majority of his drawings are a mixture of marks drawn with pencil or ink and tactile lines. But then, as you can see behind us and to my right,” she said, pointing, “some of them don’t have visible marks at all. In each case, the artwork looks like a blank page, but on touching it, the image is revealed.”

Kate adopted a more serious, administrative tone. “I should add at this point that for conservation reasons, I have to ask you not to handle the drawings here tonight, with the exception of the works directly behind us. The artist would like you to experience these drawings as he would – through touch.” Matt smiled and gave a small bow of his head.

Kate placed her hand over Matt’s in affectionate support. “Anyway, that’s enough from me. Enjoy the work, and please feel free to approach me or Matthew if you have any questions or remarks.”

The audience erupted into applause. Matt had never felt quite as self-conscious as he did right now. He was used to people commenting on his blindness when they thought he was out of earshot, and he’d learned not to let it bother him. He was used to being the centre of attention in court – an experience that was more exhilarating than embarrassing. But Kate’s words were, well, far more than he thought he deserved. She referred to Picasso for goodness sake! How could he possibly live up to that? He never set out to do anything particularly remarkable, and yet Kate made it sound like he’d invented an entirely new art form.

Matt made to squeeze his way back to Foggy and Karen, but Kate quickly said, “Matthew, I’d like to introduce you to a few people…” and before he knew it he was being introduced to person after person after person - all of whom had incredibly nice things to say.

Foggy and Karen were going to join Matt, Kate, and a number of gallery staff and acquaintances for dinner afterwards. Not wanting to answer questions about their ceramic counterparts, the two friends decided to hang out in their corner until the opening had finished. They passed the time snickering about some of the attendees’ wild fashion sense.

“Is that a jug around her neck?”

“Where?”

“Just there,” Karen gestured with her head, “the woman with the crazy red glasses and the yellow dress.”

“It’d be hard to define that as a necklace, that’s for sure,” Foggy laughed.

“Look at Matt with his adoring fans,” Karen said as she looked over at the six women clustered around Matt. If Matt had heard the comment, he didn’t show it.

“Told you,” Foggy said knowingly. “Quite the sexual Rainman. Just watch, he’ll-”

“Shit!” Karen interrupted. “There’s the appraisal woman.”

“Where?” Foggy craned his head, trying to get a glimpse of the subject of so many recent conversations.

“I wonder what she’s doing here,” Karen muttered.

* * *

 

In the meantime, Matt was splitting his attention between the conversation the appraiser was having four meters away, and the one he was having with a group of collectors.

He heard the appraiser crow to the person next to her, “there’s no doubt about it, he definitely didn’t make these sculptures.”

“How can you tell?” the other person said.

“Look at these marks. There’s no way he could pick up on marks that fine, let alone replicate them with those man hands of his.”

“Perhaps he used a tool.”

“Even so, this kind of clay can’t be purchased in the United States. Nope,” she announced dramatically, “definitely not made by Matthew Murdock.”

“I always thought this gallery was a rare place of honesty within the commercial art world,” the other person said. “I’ve bought quite a few works from Kate over the years.”

“You might need them looked at by an expert.”

“Do you know of a good one?”

“I’m an appraiser and conservator. I’ll give you my card. I consult for a number of major galleries including the Met and MoMA. I recently uncovered a couple of forgeries at the Met in fact.”

“Really? I haven’t heard about that. Tell me…”

The whole thing suddenly made sense to Matt. He was almost disappointed by the banality of it all: she was merely a fraud keen to drum up business by any means possible, including making absurd and unsubstantiated claims about high-profile institutions. He was tempted to untangle himself from the surrounding collectors to tell Karen his suspicions, but he’d finally started to relax and enjoy the company. No, it could wait till tomorrow.

* * *

 

After the dinner, Foggy, Matt, Kate and their entourage moved onto a small bar. Karen excused herself, citing work commitments the next day. She didn’t say anything but she was a little peeved at the amount of attention Matt was receiving from a couple of the female artists who had tagged along. She didn’t want to be romantically involved with Matt, but she didn’t really want anyone else to either.

The group sat around a corner table and one of the artists, Yasmin, told Matt about her own art practice. She was an installation and sound artist, and described her most recent work as ‘an immersive environment.’

“I’d love to experience that,” Matt said, genuinely intrigued. Sound art seemed right up his alley.

“Can you sculpt me?” she asked, changing topic. “I don’t see why not,” he said, smiling.

Meanwhile, Foggy was caught up with one of Kate’s assistants, Maria, who was listening attentively to Foggy’s account of the aftermath of the Punisher trial and the shooting at the DA’s office. “Matt heard the sound of the gun first, and yelled ‘get down.’ It was fortunate he did so because we would have almost definitely all been killed. I got shot in the shoulder and spent a couple of days in hospital though.” He could see the injured duck effect playing in _his_ favour this time.

Maria put her hand on his arm in a gesture of support. “So then what happened?” she said, intrigued.

 

After far too many drinks, they decided to call it a night. Matt exited holding Yasmin’s arm, and Foggy left with Maria’s number. ‘Just like the old days,’ Foggy thought to himself. The fringe benefits of Matt’s new career were turning out even better than Foggy had hoped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The essay quoted in this chapter is Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler's The Rise of Cubism (1916).


	10. The immersive environment

The following morning, Matt woke up to the familiar phone ringtone: “ _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_ …” He groaned and swiped at the screen.

“Morning sunshine,” Foggy said, cheerily. “How did you go last night?”

Matt groaned again. “Might have got a bit drunk. Told Yasmin I got my scars battling a ninja. Luckily she just laughed.”

“You do have the best alibi of them all.”

“She still there?”

“No, she’s working today and had to get up at some ungodly hour.” He rubbed his eyes, and added, “-her waitressing job, not art. Not many people make a living from art - as I suspected.”

Matt swallowed and took a deep breath, willing the hangover to magically cure itself.

“I’ll come round with coffee and bagels if you’d like -”

“Watermelon… please.”

“Ergh, you and your healthy hangover food preferences.”

Foggy turned up half an hour later juggling coffee, a bag of bagels and a massive segment of watermelon. As he entered, he announced, “I got you a bagel too just in case -”

Foggy stopped and stared at the new sculpture on the table. “You didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Matt called innocently.

“Did you use the same method?”

“For what?”

“The full body sculpture of Yasmin that’s currently drying on your dining table.”

Matt appeared in the doorway with just a towel around his waist, his hair still wet from the shower. He smirked and said, “yeah, that’s the only way.”

“Shit, Matt. Did she know beforehand?”

“Seriously? You think I’d take advantage? She wasn’t drunk or anything – she had the foresight to drink more soda than wine. I wish I’d done that.” He sighed with regret. “Anyway, the deal was that I would make a sculpture for her in exchange for an immersive environment,” he said, gesturing at his room. Foggy could see a kind of blanket fort constructed around the bed using what looked like salvaged metal from the roof, a broom, and large quantity of yarn. His speaker system, usually in the lounge room, was poking out from beneath the blankets.

Before Foggy could comment on the ‘immersive environment’, Matt said, “I was going to just do her head… but then we… she just took her clothes off and then started on mine and-”

“Okay, that’s more than enough information. I get the picture.”

Matt wandered over to the sculpture and traced the form with his fingers until he suddenly remembered he was still in just a towel. “Sorry, Foggy. I’ll just get some clothes on.”

“Dude, I’ve seen you in far fewer clothes. You weren’t exactly shy in college. Although you didn’t have quite as many scars back then either.” Foggy looked at Matt’s stomach and added, “or muscles. You’re seriously ripped right now. Have you ever thought about sculpting yourself?”

Matt looked embarrassed and scuttled off to his room to get changed.

* * *

 

Matt’s discussion with Yasmin and the subsequent bedroom installation had left him inspired. He wanted to experience more contemporary art. After a third coffee (which exhausted Matt’s measly kitchen supply), they decided that they were ready for the world and walked to MoMA where Yasmin had recommended a new installation in the central atrium.

As predicted, Matt was completely intrigued by the work. Various spices were hung from the ceiling in a web of stocking-like material. A gallery attendant watched Matt and Foggy with a look of worry and concern as they weaved through the space, hoping they didn’t bump into any of the pendulous forms.

“What’s this one?” Foggy asked as they passed by a yellowish sac.

“Turmeric,” Matt answered in a flash. “And this one’s cinnamon. And cloves, and anise,” he pointed at each one in turn. “I’m not sure about this one over here though.”

“Szechuan pepper,” the attendant answered from across the room.

“That’s the one that makes your tongue go numb, isn’t it?” Foggy asked Matt who grimaced at the memory.

They wandered up through the Modernist painting section, and Foggy described each of the artworks in turn. Matt laughed through the entire account of Picasso’s _Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_. Once Foggy had finished, Matt said, “see? Why would I need an audio guide-”

“When you have Foggy guide,” Foggy finished, leading him to the next painting. “This one is just heaps of splattered paint. I bet you could do that.”

“Yeah but I didn’t.”

“And this one… hang on, I just need to get past all the selfie stick-wielding tourists.” Foggy dragged Matt through the group of people crowded around Edvard Munch’s _Madonna_. “You’d like this one. It’s a coloured print of a woman topless with her arms behind her head. She looks a bit dangerous. In fact, she looks a little like Elektra – beautiful with dark hair, cheek bones et cetera. And there’s a kind of frame around her…. wait, is that sperm?”

Matt chuckled.

“There’s a foetus-like thing in the corner,” Foggy continued. “Kinda looks like the shrivelled Voldemort in the final Harry Potter movie.”

“In the train station?”

“No, not a train station. I said it _looked_ like a train station.” Foggy remembered the challenge of trying to describe scenes from Harry Potter to Matt in real time.

A woman behind Matt elbowed him slightly in the back, and Matt tried to shuffle out of the way. “I don’t know why a blind guy is taking up the prime viewing spot,” she muttered to her partner in a fairly loud voice.

“Go fuck yourself, you ignorant idiot,” Foggy hissed at her.

“Foggy!” Matt yelped, pulling him away from the crowd.

“Sorry. I just got cross. And I’m hungover… actually I’m not sorry. I’d say it again.”

Matt sighed. “I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s a time and a place. Let’s go explore another floor. This one’s a bit tainted now.” He led Foggy towards the escalators.

The other floors were relatively empty. In fact, by the time they found themselves outside a sound installation on the top floor, there was no one else around. The enclosed installation space was completely dark. Realising that Matt had the navigational advantage in this situation, Foggy gripped his arm. “It’s like the blind leading the blind,” he whispered. Matt huffed in amusement.

“The speakers are amazing,” Matt said as he spun walked around the space. “They really light up the room… so to speak.”

“The text outside says that it uses subsonic sounds. Can you hear those?”

“Yeah, I guess I can.”

“You guess?”

“Well, I’ve never had my hearing tested, but I know my range is greater than normal so it figures I’d be able to hear lower frequencies than you. But then I don’t know what you hear.”

“I can _feel_ the subsonic sound.”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it,” Matt gushed.

Foggy wasn’t quite as impressed with the work, but he understood why Matt was so enamoured. It was a work that he could finally experience in its entirety. He could finally experience it as intended by the artist.

As they left the museum, Foggy said, “hair of the dog?”

“Where?”

“The museum cocktail bar.”

Matt shifted uncomfortably. It sounded expensive. Even though he’d sold quite a few drawings the previous night, his cut certainly wasn’t enough to be drinking cocktails.

Foggy could guess the reason for Matt’s reluctance. He added, “my treat.”

“You don’t need to do that, Foggy. You’ve already paid for all my art materials.”

“In exchange for that beer bottle drawing. We both know that the pricetag is more than the materials combined.”

“Yeah, but I’d give you one anyway.”

“Come on,” Foggy argued. “Stop with the martyr act. As I’ve said before, if I’m going to work for sharks, I might as well spend the proceeds enjoying myself with my best friend in a sexy cocktail bar.”

Matt rolled his eyes at Foggy’s reasoning, but followed him into the bar nonetheless.

Once they were seated, the waiter handed them each a drinks list. Matt waved it away. “I’ll have a negroni please.”

“That sounds fancy,” said Foggy. Matt just shrugged and Foggy decided to order one too to save himself the pain of decision-making. He unilaterally decided to order a couple of small plates of food too. “The bagels have worn off,” he told Matt when he protested.

Once the waiter had left, Foggy asked, “so how do you know about this cocktail? You rarely go out drinking with anyone else, let alone order cocktails.”

“Elektra.” Matt said. “She had a thing for Italian cocktails. Bitter things.”

“You miss her?”

“No. But I guess she was in my mind after that print you described.” This wasn’t entirely true. He missed elements of Elektra: the excitement and adventure, the way she seemed to understand his thirst for fighting, for violence. Karen and Foggy would never understand all the reasons he felt compelled to go out night after night and physically confront the city’s criminals.

“Red,” observed Foggy when the cocktails arrived. “Of course it’s red.” He took a sip and grimaced slightly at the unexpected bitterness. “You’re right, this is good,” Foggy taking another drink. “It’s strong though. If there’s anything that will chase away my hangover right now it’ll be this.”

Matt gestured at the food. “So how do we eat, er, this… fishy matter?”

“Caviar. It’s on a puffy bready-looking thing with, um, I’m not sure what that sauce is. Just pick it up with your hands.” Matt still looked wary, so Foggy wiped his hand on his napkin, grabbed a piece and handed it to Matt, who sniffed it cautiously. The watermelon was now a distant memory, and Matt was ravenous. He eventually shrugged and shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

“Since when did _you_ get so fancy?” Matt said after he’d swallowed.

“Oh come on, we used to eat caviar at college.”

“Correction: _You_ did. But only when we snuck into fancy college cocktail parties when it was free… and always a bit warm by the time you dug in.”

“Ergh, I wish you’d revealed your amazing radar sense _before_ I got that food poisoning.”

“Sorry, Foggy. Anyway, this stuff seems good.” Matt held up his cocktail. “To fancy,” he toasted with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Did you know I have a chair in my office that no one sits in because they don’t know it’s a chair?” Foggy laughed.

“To chairs you don’t know how to sit in,” Matt toasted again.

“And art,” Foggy responded, clinking Matt’s glass.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably able to guess some of the unnamed artworks by their descriptions. On another note, I think that it's time to invoke Matt's 'I have this incredible ability to bring disaster to the best things in my life.'


	11. Quite a coincidence

Matt spent a good half hour ruminating over which suit, shirt and tie combo he should wear to his first day working as research assistant to his former criminal law professor, Andrew Douglas. He wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to wear for the job, but he figured that his old work 'uniform' would give the impression that he was neat and professional. Plus he felt quite safe in his suit – it was like a protective shell in a way.

He ran his hand over each suit and identifying braille tag in turn before deciding on the one with the closest weave. At least it would be comfortable. He turned to the rack of ties, avoiding the group of novelty ties Foggy had given him over the years. Matt had never understood Foggy’s attraction towards ties decorated with frogs, elephants or cakes – he’d even bought one with a paintbrush print for the recent art opening. Eventually, Matt picked out a conservative striped burgundy-coloured tie (for luck).

Matt arrived at Columbia almost an hour ahead of the scheduled meeting, keen to reorient himself and make sure he could remember where the professor's office was. Of course, he found it almost immediately, and decided to wait on the wooden bench outside his office. The wood was smooth with age thanks to the thousands of students who had rested there over the years. Matt ran his hand along the surface, trying to concentrate on the knots and grains in the armrests and the comforting smell of beeswax-based furniture polish, rather than the looming meeting. This was such a wonderful opportunity to work with a man he admired and respected, not to mention an escape route from rote temp work. That said, he could scarcely believe his luck, and had thus decided not to quit his freelance work straight away just in case it was a joke, or the professor had changed his mind.

It wasn’t long before one of the law school administration staff spotted him and alerted the professor. 

“Matthew,” Andrew said warmly from behind his desk as Matt was ushered into the room. “It's so nice to see you again. Come in and have a seat.”

As Matt gingerly approached the desk, Andrew added, “oh I'm sorry. The chair is straight ahead and slightly to the right.” He got to his feet in an attempt to help Matt.

“I'm okay, thanks.” Matt said quickly as he stepped forward. He nudged his cane against the chair and groped for the front, eager to demonstrate his independence.

“Did you enjoy your opening? I’ve rarely seen the gallery that packed.”

“Yes, it was quite overwhelming. But it was great.” Matt said, smiling.

“Good to hear,” Andrew said, returning the smile. “Well, back to the slightly less glamorous topic of law… Before I get into the details of the research project, I just want to let you know that we’ll provide you with whatever adaptive materials you need. I'll get Lucy - one of the admin staff - to set you up with a desk and computer later today. You can give her an idea of the software you require.”

Matt interrupted, “I brought my own laptop if that's easier. And a braille reader.” He tapped the bag that was on his lap. 

“I’ll need to make sure the information is securely stored. We’re working with a lot of highly sensitive and confidential information… although you’re used to that, I’m sure.”

“Of course.”

“Would using your own computer be easier for you?”

“Much easier, thank you,” Matt replied, relieved that he didn't have to adapt to a new system.

“Excellent. Now that that’s out of the way, let's get down to the research project you'll be working on...”

In an odd coincidence, it turned out that the professor was researching the way in which people with moderate extra- or superhuman powers were treated within the legal system. He explained to Matt that the recent accords governing the Avengers served as a comparison, but was not the subject of the study in itself (“the legalities of the Sokovia Accords is a whole research topic in itself,” Andrew had noted). Instead, Andrew’s focus was on individuals who lay outside the official superpower group – enhanced individuals who were yet to be formally registered and/or identified. The project was inspired by the recent treatment of Luke Cage within the legal system and the media. Andrew had started researching Cage and other individuals who he either knew or suspected of having extraordinary gifts, compiling any and all interactions with the legal system.

Matt couldn't quite believe this turn of events. On one hand, it seemed too close to his own personal circumstances. It was a definite conflict of interest, even though there was no way he could tell Andrew even if he wanted to. He had no intention of joining forces with others as Daredevil, yet he couldn't help but feel intrigued by the prospect of identifying others with similar powers.

“These powers,” Matt clarified, “includes superhuman strength… and you mentioned one case where the individual could allegedly control people with his mind, is that right? Are there any other powers you're aware of?”

“Yes, there's strength. But Luke Cage, as you might know, also has impermeable skin. With the exception of a specially manufactured bullet, usual weapons and bullets just bounce right off him. Another has the ability to weaponise almost any object and use it to kill or injure individuals. He has impeccable aim. There's another individual who is rumoured to have telekinetic powers, but that is yet to be substantiated. Then there's our local vigilante – Daredevil - who seems to have extraordinary fighting skills, although it's hard to judge whether he has a particular superpower or whether he's merely a master of martial arts with extreme athletic abilities.”

Matt nodded. Part of him worried that this new job was not such a coincidence after all, and that Andrew actually knew about his supersenses. Was this a trick? Had he been that lax in hiding his abilities? 

“So what is the overall aim of your research?” Matt asked, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach caused by the strange mix of anxiety and intrigue.

“Well, firstly I’d like to examine whether these individuals have been treated more or less favourably than regular citizens within the legal system. I'd also like to propose a set of guidelines that are better suited to dealing with these individuals – guidelines that are far more just and transparent than the Accords. At the moment, the consequences of these superhumans’ actions have the potential to be substantially more harmful than the average citizen. But then again, they also have the capacity for good. I dare say that in this gun-loving nation of yours, the ability to deflect bullets is a valuable form of self-defence – and one that could be used for the public good. Some of the questions I’m asking are, should we be harnessing these people's powers and employing them for positive use? Should these citizens ever be compelled to assist, or should we offer special legal conditions and/or inducements? Who oversees the management of these measures and what safeguards are in place to prevent fraud and misuse? If these individuals are dealt with within the legal system, should there be alternative ways of assessing their crimes and/or delivering punishment?”

“Do you mean we should be more lenient?” Matt interrupted.

“Not necessarily. But it's a question that I would like to explore further, and that's where your recent experience defending Frank Castle might help.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “You think _Frank Castle_ has superhuman powers?”

“Another question that I'd like you to pursue. What makes a human extraordinary? We have long celebrated athletic ability, intelligence, creativity, but we fear many other types of difference. Why is that?”

“Well, a lot of these individuals have demonstrated a capacity for extreme violence. Of course that’s going to result in fear,” Matt said bluntly.

“But at what point did they become violent? Who are the victims? Is the violence a reaction to fear, harassment, vigilantism? Is it senseless violence, or is it targeted at criminals or other superhumans?”

“Even if these vigilantes fight criminals, they’re still acting outside the law,” Matt pointed out.

“Indeed,” Andrew nodded, noting that Matt looked a little fired up. “And while it’s important to acknowledge these distinctions, I’d like you to stay as neutral and objective as possible when compiling information for me.”

The two of them went over the existing research together until Andrew spotted the time and realised he was almost due in class. He apologised profusely for the unexpectedly lengthy meeting. “I'll quickly introduce you to Lucy, and then I'll leave you to read through the material in detail. We can meet again tomorrow and go over the specifics of what I'd like you to do. Are you free at, say, 10am?”

Matt nodded. He'd do just about anything for this opportunity.

* * *

 

The following day, Matt carefully chose another suit and tie combo and made his way to Columbia once again. He’d noted the previous day that while Andrew donned a suit, most of the other staff seemed to dress more casually. However, his suit always seemed to boost his confidence. As his blind mentor and (unofficial) etiquette teacher, Edith, had taught him all those years ago, dressing neatly and professionally at all times made it less likely that people would underestimate him. Besides, it was wonderful to finally feel professional again - to leave the house dressed in a suit, rather than slothing in sweatpants and a thinning hoodie. To know that all those years spent studying at college haven’t gone to waste. To feel valued.

His task for the day was to start compiling lists of lawyers and/or law firms who had represented or had some kind of working relationship to suspected superhumans. When Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz first came up, he noted the name, but didn't really consider it a big deal. They were a big firm. They represented a wide range of clients. However, by lunchtime he'd found four additional superhumans who were either represented by the firm or had ties to individuals within the company.

What was Foggy's law firm doing representing so many superhuman clients? Was it deliberate? What's more, what was Foggy's involvement in all this? They'd never talked about the way Foggy had got the job. He tried to push the thoughts out of his head. Foggy was a talented and hard-working lawyer. He deserved to be made partner. He got the job on his own merit. There was no way it could be anything else.

He startled when a voice behind him said, “Matthew?” He'd been so caught up in his research that he didn't notice Andrew approach. Matt stood in welcome.

“There's no need to get up. I just thought I'd see how you were coming along,” Andrew said, pulling up a chair.  

“Well, I've compiled the lists for all the key individuals.” Matt debated whether to ask Andrew directly about Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz’s involvement. It might be best to wait - do a bit more digging.

“The entire primary list?” Andrew said in surprise.

“Yes, that's what you wanted, right?”

“Yes - yes, of course. I just didn't expect you to be so quick. I'm impressed. Could you give me a quick look?”

Matt pushed his laptop towards Andrew. “I'm not sure what the formatting looks like. Let me know if it's okay.”

Andrew scrolled through the spreadsheet, murmuring to himself. “Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz comes up quite frequently. Interesting.” Andrew looked at Matt. “You said your former business partner works there.”

“Yes,” Matt said warily. 

Andrew could see Matt wasn’t going to elaborate and decided not to pursue the matter. He said enthusiastically, “well, Matthew, this is splendid work. I'm so pleased you've come to work with me. I'm feeling very optimistic about this project.”

Matt smiled. “And thank _you_ for the opportunity. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Keep digging and when you've finished with the minor individuals, we'll go over those as well.” Andrew made to walk out of the room. 'Oh Matthew, I nearly forgot -' he said, turning around.

Matt’s stomach fell. It wasn't going to be about Foggy, was it? Did he want Matt to use his contacts to spy on Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz?

“Would you be interested in talking to my second year class about criminal law and disability?”

This was not something Matt had expected. Him? Teach people not that much younger than himself?

“It'd only be one session, but I suspect you'd excel at teaching. You’re an engaging speaker. What do you think?”

“Would-” Matt hesitated, before correcting, “yes, I think I'd like that very much.” It was best not turn down any opportunity at the moment.

“Wonderful,” Andrew exclaimed, squeezing his hands together in delight.

* * *

 

By Friday, Matt could no longer deny it. The sheer number of superhumans with ties to Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz could not be a coincidence. He had to know. He had to ask Foggy.

That evening, Foggy turned up with the usual takeout and beer. Matt was drawing at the dining table, trying to unwind before confronting Foggy. He'd become unused to focusing on deskwork for an entire working day thanks to his undisciplined approach to freelance employment, so his new work schedule seemed exhausting, even though the days were relatively short. Thanks to art, he now had a third method to relax that was far more productive than drinking, and far less dependent on external circumstances than kitting up as Daredevil.

Foggy plonked himself down at the table, handing Matt a beer. Matt popped the bottle top, setting a new record of hitting nine items before ricocheting into the bin. “Nice one,” Foggy said in awe. “So, how was your first week at Columbia? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Really interesting.”

“Come on. You have to give me more than that. What are you researching?”

“Humans with super powers within the American legal system.”

“No really, what are you really researching?” said Foggy, chuckling.

“Just that.”

“You're kidding me!”

“Nope,” Matt smirked.

“Does Professor Douglas know?” Foggy whispered conspiratorially.

“About Daredevil?” Matt clarified.

“Does he know you're-“

“No. At least I don’t think so. I'm about 97% sure. He wants me to track Daredevil's activities though. And some of the recent high-profile figures - Luke Cage, Killgrave et cetera.”

“Shit.” Foggy said, leaning back into the chair. “If he doesn't know, that's a pretty weird coincidence, huh. Are you going to do it?”

“Of course. I don't want anyone else researching Daredevil. I was always scared Karen was going to do it. I'd be even more paranoid if I knew there was someone employed for that specific purpose.”

“I guess,” Foggy said.

“He wants me to teach one of his classes too. Disability and the criminal justice system.”

“That's great. Did we cover that?”

“At Columbia? No. I guess Andrew thinks it’s a gap that needs to be filled.”

“I'm so glad it's working out for you, Buddy.” Foggy reached over and squeezed Matt's shoulder affectionately. 

“Thanks, man.”

Now Matt felt even more awkward about asking Foggy about his involvement in Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz. He was so genuine; so supportive and positive. How could he doubt Foggy's motives? He pulled at the label on his beer bottle, trying to come up with the best way to phrase the question. Before he could speak, however, Foggy demanded he help select the evening’s movie. He buzzed with anxiety throughout Texas Chainsaw Massacre, unable to truly appreciate Foggy’s well-practiced and enthusiastic visual descriptions.

Eventually Matt could put it off no longer. “Foggy?” he said cautiously.

“Yep?”

“What do you know about your firm’s superhuman clients?”

“Um, why?” Foggy deflected.

“It’s just that… well, you seem to represent or at least have ties a significant number of superhumans.”

“Did they indicate that they knew you had interacted with Daredevil when they hired you?”

“No, of course not. I’d tell you if that was the case,” Foggy said, crossly.

“So it’s a mere coincidence that a close acquaintance of Daredevil is all of a sudden made a partner at a prestigious law firm, despite the fact that he only has a few years experience practicing law?”

“What?” Foggy said, incensed.

“Well, what if someone knows and they’re using you to reveal my identity?”

“Because everything is about you, isn’t it,” Foggy said sarcastically. “Maybe they just hired me because I’m a good lawyer. Did you ever think about that?”

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“No, you never do.”

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t be naïve, Foggy.”

“No. Seriously. Stop it. I can’t believe this. You’re just jealous that I got a good job that pays well at a firm where I’m _respected_ and don’t have to worry about my colleagues always turning up late and concussed… and that’s if they turn up at all.” Foggy was on his feet, red with anger.

“That’s not-”

“Shut up, Matt. Shut the fuck up. I don’t have time for this juvenile shit.” He stormed out the door, leaving Matt silent and shaking on the couch. That was _not_ how this was meant to go.

There was only one way Matt could cope with this level of anger and frustration. He quickly pulled out his red Daredevil suit, and made his way up to the roof, listening for a potential human punching bag. Within a minute, he’d identified a petty thief and unleashed a level of rage and retribution that was unarguably disproportionate to the crime.

 


	12. Spectacular Sounds

The next day, Matt woke up to a phone call from Karen, wanting him to hang out for the day.

“Come on, Matt,” she whined. “You can’t possibly be too busy. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

He was curled up in bed, aching from the eight hours spent prowling the streets as Daredevil. He scratched at the flakes of blood on his chin. The small scrape on his chin had dried tight overnight and now pulled uncomfortably at the surrounding skin. He’d been reckless last night, staying out far beyond the point of exhaustion. He’d taken his anger out on anyone who dared cross the Matthew Murdock line of morality: a mugger, a guy who yelled ‘slut’ at a young woman, and another man who threw a coin at the head of a homeless guy. They all suffered bloody consequences.

“Matt?” Karen said more tentatively when he didn’t answer straight away.

“I’m not feeling so well, Kare,” he said. He shifted onto his back with a small groan.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” she asked in alarm.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I thought you just said that you’re unwell.”

Matt sighed. He couldn’t use the ‘I’m unwell’ line with Karen anymore. She always insisted on details rather than accepting it as the socially acceptable excuse for a declined invitation. The truth was he was still roiling from last night’s fight with Foggy, and Karen would no doubt provoke further anxiety and frustration.

“I’m just tired. Big week. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s right. How did Columbia go?”

“Really well. It’s an interesting research project. Maybe we could talk about it another time though when I’m feeling more awake. Sometime next week?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

As they hung up, Matt smiled at his newfound diversionary strategy: he just had to suggest meeting up in the near future. Hopefully everything will have calmed down in a week - Foggy will have forgiven him (although in truth Matt believed that unlikely, not to mention undeserved), and he’ll have come up with some non-confidential project information to share with Karen that will at least sate her curiosity.

He shuffled to the shower, and stood under the hot water, trying to breathe his anger out through the steamy air. But his mind kept returning to the previous night’s argument with Foggy. Over and over and over, he could hear Foggy’s cutting words: “ _I’m respected …Maybe they just hired me because I’m a good lawyer… don’t have to worry about my colleagues always turning up late and concussed… and that’s if they turn up at all_ … _You’re just jealous_ ”. The feelings of deep and utter regret were all too familiar. Foggy was a brilliant lawyer; he was smart, hardworking and kind, so why did he ever think it appropriate to suggest he got the job on anything other than his own merit?

When the shower didn’t help, Matt tried meditating. He twitched his way through twenty hellish minutes before giving up and making a coffee. Unable to sit still, he drank the coffee while tidying up his art supplies on the bookshelf. _The art supplies Foggy bought him…_ ( _“_ _everything is about you, isn’t it_ _”_ )

At that thought, he abandoned the tidying and furiously washed his coffee cup, slamming it onto the dish drainer with such force that the handle broke off. He hesitated slightly at the fridge before pulling out a beer in a last ditch attempt to drown his sorrows in alcohol. But it turned out his sorrows had learned to swim. By midday Matt was back in bed, curled up beneath the covers, hiding from the world.

* * *

 

He was woken up for the second time that day by Yasmin. Disoriented, but unwilling to give away the fact that he had no idea what time or day it was, he quickly hit his talking alarm clock (“ _Three thirty three PM_ ”) before answering the phone.

“Hello?” he said, his voice gruff with sleep.

“Hi Matt, it’s Yasmin… from the other night. Did I wake you?”

“No, not at all. I remember. You made me a very memorable immersive environment.”

“And you made me a very memorable sculpture,” she laughed.

“A memorable night all round,” he added smugly.

“What are you up to now? I just knocked off work and there’s a sound art performance thingy today that you might be interested in.”

Matt perked up almost immediately. “Yeah, that sounds great actually.”

“Cool. It’s in an old riverside warehouse just near your apartment, so perhaps I could come round to yours and we could walk from there? Are you home now?”

“Yeah, but I’m not-”

“You’re not up yet? Big night?”

Matt laughed. “Something like that. Give me half an hour.”

“Deal.”

* * *

 

It turned out to be not one performance but many. Within the large ex-industrial warehouse, there were a couple of performance spaces in the main hall, a couple of large installations in the annex rooms, as well as a series of discrete sound artworks in the smaller upper floor.

“This is huge,” Matt said as he and Yasmin wandered into the third installation, hand in hand.

“Yeah, I think I might have understated things over the phone, sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, this is fantastic.”

Yasmin smiled and squeezed his hand. “This one is by my friend Likira, who I met on a residency in Nanjing. She’s currently doing a residency at Soma. Do you know it?”

“Soma? I only know it as the drug in _Brave New World_.”

“I thought that was Soba.”

“I think Soba is type of noodle,” Matt teased.

“Smart ass. Anyway, _this_ Soma is an artist studio in Brooklyn. Have you ever considered doing an art residency?”

Matt shook his head. “I’ve never been out of New York.” He used to be proud of this fact, but it now dawned on him that his lack of desire to travel probably made him seem quite unimaginative and boring to people like Yasmin.

“We’ll have to change that,” she said, suddenly twirling on the spot, swinging her spare arm in the air, triggering a string of zither notes and bells. “It responds to movement,” she said as she let go of Matt’s hand and did another spin, which was once more echoed in sound. Matt raised his arm a little cautiously, triggering a low, almost sub-sonic note. He jumped up and down a few times, and the zither returned, this time in a minor key. Encouraged, their movements got more and more outrageous until Yasmin accidently tripped over Matt’s cane while leaping sideways, arms waving in the air. In what can only be described as the smoothest move ever, Matt managed to ‘fall’ as well, catching Yasmin before she hit the ground.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said with a snort, and they both rolled onto their backs, laughing. Yasmin kicked her foot into the air, and a stream of bells rang out. Matt was just about to do the same when a couple of people walked in, immediately apologising as they spotted Yasmin and Matt lying on the ground. Yasmin let out a giggle, and Matt pulled them both to their feet.

“Oof. How could I forget about those muscles!” she said at his seemingly effortless motion.

“Come on,” he said, feeling his way along the corridor. “I want to hear what’s in the next room.”

* * *

 

“I could do with a drink,” Yasmin announced after they’d done a circuit of the upper floor. “They must have a bar set up somewhere.”

“It’s in the back corner on the bottom floor,” Matt said, easily able to hear the sound of tinkling glasses and popping bottle tops through the warehouse’s poor soundproofing, even with all the surrounding sound art.

“-I overheard someone mention it earlier,” he clarified.

“Your hearing is probably much sharper than mine. I’m guessing you can probably pick up the nuances of sounds that seeing people can’t,” she said, pulling him in the direction of the bar.

“Yep. My hearing is spectacular.” Matt experienced a wave of guilt at his use of the in-joke between him and Foggy.

“So can you hear ‘spaces’?”

“In a way, yes.”

“So can you hear that we’re in a corridor right now?”

“Yes, but a corridor is easy.”

“Okay, what about now?” she asked, as they walked down the stairs into the main hallway.

“Well that’s easy too. It’s a large open space. I can hear people talking unimpeded, as well as the performers on the stage over there.” He didn’t need supersenses to gather that information. They walked through to the pop-up bar at the back. “Ah, the familiar sound of a beer bottle being opened,” he announced facetiously.

“And the smell of cheap wine,” she answered back. “What do you want: beer or wine?”

“After your withering olfactory assessment of the wine, I’d say beer.”

“Cheap beer it is then.”

Beers in hand, they ducked out the small door next to the bar where a couple of milk crates were set up along the river’s edge. The water lapped at the concrete pylons, with the occasional deep glug as it entered a cave-like undercut.

“Nature’s sound art,” Matt said, nodding at the river.

“That’s so corny,” she groaned, and Matt grinned.

He blew onto the top of the bottle in time with the waves, making a deliciously resonant sound. Yasmin put her mouth to the lip of the bottle and pursed her lips, trying to mimic Matt’s technique.

“How do you do it? I just end up drooling into my bottle instead,” she said, wiping her mouth.

“Magic,” he whispered.

“You can’t fool me. I know how air column resonance works, Matt. I can never do that trick though for some reason.”

“Yeah, you’re right. No superpowers involved. You just need to change the angle. Do you want me to show you?”

“No. Moment’s over," she said matter-of-factly. "But perhaps we should collaborate on a sound installation. A proper one. Between my eyes, and your ears, we could make something incredible… _spectacular_ even,” she teased.

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, not believing he was in any way cool enough to make something like sound art.

“You sound unconvinced.”

“I just don’t know how,” he said, looking a little bit pathetic.

“Well you just out-blew me on the bottle sound art competition.”

“You know what I mean - I don’t have the technical knowledge.”

“That’s easy to fix. When we collaborate, I’ll teach you. Have you ever thought about going to art school?”

Matt laughed.

Yasmin stared at him, confused. “Why is that funny?”

“I don’t know. I guess I still think about art as a hobby – for me at least…. And I’ve spent so many years studying already. I mean, it sounds great, but I’m in my thirties. I don’t really want to start a whole new degree.”

“It’s not a hobby, Matt. You had a show in a well-respected gallery. Most art school _graduates_ don’t get that far.”

“I guess I’m just lucky.”

“Or good,” she chuckled. “But seriously, don’t undermine your talents - or the work of professional artists for that matter.”

“Sorry.” Matt ducked his head.

“Okay, so you don’t want to study, but I’m going to hold you to that collaboration. What do you want to make?”

“Um, an immersive environment?” Matt said, grinning.

Yasmin ignored Matt’s not-so-subtle innuendo. “Of course, but what kind? We should make it completely dark so that everyone is on a level playing field.”

“Apart from me,” Matt pointed out. “Remember? Spectacular hearing.”

“Apart from you.”

“Well for a start, I like subtler works, so maybe we could make a contemplative space that you move around..."

They plotted their spectacular installation throughout the rest of the evening, tossing ideas to and fro as they drew inspiration from the sound works around them. By the time they woke up the next morning (without a temporary immersive environment around the bed this time), they’d come up with a plan that sounded incredible and achievable even in their now sober state.

* * *

 

Although Matt was certain he didn’t want to return to college, Yasmin had nonetheless planted a seed. He enjoyed drawing and sculpting, but sound art was something that he wanted to pursue further. Perhaps he could do a short course as Yasmin had suggested. Normally he’d talk it over with Foggy, but that wasn’t an option now. They hadn’t communicated since their argument, and Matt hadn’t the bravery to fix that particular problem yet.

The following week he raised the topic with Kate while they were finishing up his exhibition de-install.

“What do you think about art schools?” he said cryptically.

“As a concept?”

Matt shrugged. “Yeah, I was thinking… someone suggested that I go to art school.” When Kate didn’t say anything, he added, “I want to learn how to make sound art.”

Kate sighed. “You know I have a conflict of interest here, Matt.” Matt raised his eyebrows.

“How so?”

“When you exhibit at NOVA, your artwork is marketed on the fact that you haven’t received art training. This is not a good or a bad thing. It doesn’t make your work better or worse. It simply is. But I can’t make that decision for you.”

“I didn’t think about it like that." He considered her point. "You’re right... and I appreciate your honesty.”

“Would you like to have another show here in the future? If so, we’d love to have you. We had so many people through who loved the work, and it was almost a complete sell-out. That's pretty rare.”

He ran his hands over the one of the collaborative/ sacrificial drawings. “I don’t want to commit just yet, but yes, I’m interested.”

“What are you working on at the moment?”

“Just some drawings. I started a new job last week so I haven’t had time for sculpture.”

“Oh what’s that?”

“Research assistant at Columbia. I got offered the job at my opening, in fact.”

“I hope it hasn’t cost me an artist,” she joked.

“Unlikely. The job’s four days a week so I have plenty of time for all my extracurricular activities.”

“Sounds like a good balance," she agreed. "Speaking of sculptures, you might not have noticed, but they’ve all been taken by their new owner.”

“That makes the de-install easier at least,” he quipped.

“Yes, Vanessa was keen to get them home as soon as possible. She just loved them. She couldn’t choose which one she wanted so in the end she bought them all. I guess her own business is going fairly well.”

“Vanessa?”

“Yes, she’s a fellow gallery-owner. A friend of mine. She just arrived back in New York a few weeks ago after a six-month research trip.”

“What’s Vanessa’s last name?” Matt asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Marianna. Why?”

But Matt didn't respond. He was already out the door.

 


	13. I hear you've been busy

"You're lucky Mr Fisk agreed to meet you after the last visit, Mr Murdock," Fisk's lawyer, Mr Donovan, purred as they met outside the prison security gates. The lawyer handed Matt a piece of paper with the visiting conditions. "We've added a section on threats - physical or otherwise."

Matt wanted to point out that he'd been the one who left their previous meeting bruised, bloody, and fearing for Foggy and Karen's safety. He'd goaded Fisk into revealing that he was essentially running the prison from the inside, but had misjudged Fisk's capacity for furious vengeance. He deeply regretted his empty threat to get Fisk's love of his life -Vanessa - deported when Fisk had countered with a threat to Foggy's life. Matt had no doubt that Fisk was serious and the fear about Foggy’s safety had plagued him ever since.

Matt was silent as he ran his hand over the braille-printed terms and quickly signed the bottom of the page. He wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible. He shook off Mr Donovan’s offer to guide him, muttering, "I'll follow your footsteps."

"As you wish, Mr Murdock."

Matt was on high alert as they wandered through the corridors to the visiting area. He could smell the dank cells, cheap cleaning products and underlying stench of sweat, urine and blood. He could hear the clanging of heavy metal doors and the sound of a brawl in the distance. As his concentration drifted to the administration areas ahead of him, Matt overheard an officer order "remember to switch the video off in the crossing." There was little doubt in his mind that the previous meeting had gone without video monitoring and he suspected 'The Crossing' was the ominous code name for the (soon-to-be unmonitored) visiting room he was about to enter. The guard at the door grabbed his cane without warning, but stayed outside the door. Entering the room a step ahead of Matt, Mr Donovan offered his arm once more. Figuring that it'd be quicker and no doubt safer to accept his assistance than give the impression of searching for the table and chair unaided, Matt allowed himself to be lead towards the table and chairs where the very solid form of Wilson Fisk was waiting.

"Mr Murdock. I was wondering when I'd see you again," Fisk boomed.

Matt didn't respond so Fisk continued, his tone sickeningly smug. "I hear you've been busy - a new career of sorts. So you want to be an artist-"

"Why did you buy my sculptures?" Matt sharply interrupted.

Fisk raised his eyebrows, unfazed at Matt's knowledge about the acquisitions. "What, you can't work it out yourself? A smart guy like you. Top of the class at an Ivy League school."

Matt knew he had two options: engage at Fisk's level, or remain silent and try and read the situation through his heartbeat, body language and tone. Deciding on the latter, he sat stone-faced and silent, willing Fisk to spill something, anything that might betray his intentions. Fisk was an egotistical man who couldn't resist gloating. He might make a mistake.

"Why did you come here if you're just going to sit there in silence?" Fisk leaned forward a little, and stage whispered, "did you want to continue our conversation about your business partner?'

Matt's anger surged, but he remained silent.

"Oh no," Fisk said theatrically. "That's right, you have no business partner, no business-"

"Why did Vanessa buy my sculptures?" Matt tried again, this time mentioning his beloved's name in an attempt to provoke him into answering the question.

Fisk said in a dangerous voice, "why it's simple. I need to know whose lives to end. You revealed the people closest to you when you used them as subjects. I have them sitting on individual pedestals, waiting for me to knock them off _literally_ as I destroy each and every one of your closest friends. Eventually you'll be the only one left, and only then - only when all your friends are dead because of _you_ , Mr Murdock - I'll decide what to do with you. You know how it feels to be alone, don't you _Mr Murdock_?" Flecks of spit landed on the table from his emphasis on the two last words.

Matt instinctively launched himself at Fisk, slamming into the table as he almost instantaneously remembered he had to play the blind Matthew Murdock. He'd give anything to be in his Daredevil costume right now, as absurd as the situation would be.

Fisk sneered as he leaned back in his chair. "I guess our little conversation is over," he boomed, audible enough for the guards to take it as their cue to return to the room. Then he charged forward and slammed Matt’s face against the table. “One for the road,” he laughed.

Once again, Matt limped from the prison feeling shackled by his public persona. Blood was dripping from his nose onto his shirt, and he looked a pitiful sight. But he didn’t care about that. Daredevil would take over from here. But first, it was time to tell Foggy about Fisk's threats, including the one made months ago on Matt's first prison visit. He'd promised Foggy that he'd be more honest, and this was the test.

He picked up his phone and after a short but heated argument, Matt managed to convince a reluctant Foggy to leave work and meet him at his apartment immediately.

* * *

 

"This better be-" Foggy stopped short. "Shit! What happened?” Foggy exclaimed, his anger short-circuited as he saw the bruise emerging on the bridge of Matt’s nose and the dried blood on his shirt. “You evidently didn’t get that Daredevilling. Am I allowed to know?”

“This time, yes. Can we sit?”

"Sure, but can you at least wipe some of that blood off your face first. It's making me nervous." Matt unceremoniously grabbed a cloth from the kitchen, ran it under the tap and scrubbed at his face as he joined Foggy at the table.

Matt took at deep breath and said, “it was Fisk.”

“Fisk? As in the Fisk who’s currently in jail?”

"Yes. I need to tell you something that I should have told you months ago. You wanted me to be more honest-"

"You lied again?"

"No, just listen. Do you remember that day Frank Castle escaped from jail?"

"The day I got shot? It's kinda difficult to forget."

"Yes, well, remember how I suspected Fisk's involvement? I visited him immediately after the shooting."

"So that's where you went," Foggy said, half to himself.

"Fisk is running the prison, Foggy. The guards, the prisoners - they all answer to Fisk."

"From everything we know about Fisk, does that really surprise you?"

Matt snapped "no, of course not. But I needed to confirm it for myself. And I did. But in doing so, he threatened your life." Matt left out the part of the story where he threatened Vanessa.

"He threatened to kill me?"

"Twice. He also made threats towards Karen and others today."

"Why?"

"He’s angry that we put him away-"

"No, I mean why did you go back?"

"He bought my sculptures... well, Vanessa did... but he must have ordered her to."

"He bought your art? Why?"

"It's a threat, Foggy. He wanted my attention-"

"And you gave it to him, Matt. Geez, why couldn't you just let it be?"

"I needed to know."

"But you didn't think I needed to know about a fucking threat to my life?" Foggy pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and Matt cringed at the sudden loud sound.

"I didn't want to worry you," Matt said with a hangdog expression. "And I'm going to protect you, Foggy. I won't let anything happen to you. Trust me."

Foggy snorted derisively. "Trust you? You lied to me again. And now you ask me to trust you?"

"I know. But I'm telling you the truth now. I told you I'd be more honest. I want to make it better."

"Have you noticed that you trying to make things better hasn't exactly worked out well for anyone lately?"

Matt gave Foggy a look of shock and hurt.

"You're mad. I understand that," Matt said after an uncomfortable silence.

'Yes, Matt. I'm mad. I'm mad about all the lies, the deception. I'm mad that you're constantly and unilaterally deciding what's best for everyone around you. I'm mad at you for abandoning Castle's trial-'

Matt was taken aback. He thought they'd moved past that.

Foggy continued. '-for not telling me about Daredevil, about your senses-'

'But-'

'No, let me finish,' Foggy interrupted. 'You infuriate me, Matt. On one hand you can be the most selfless person, sacrificing everything to help complete strangers, putting yourself out to help your friends. But then you can also be a complete cunt at times, saving complete strangers at the expense of your friends, cutting people off and disappearing without notice. I'm mad and I worry about you and I'm hurt that you don't trust me enough with information like _someone's threatening to kill me_. And then the other day, when you suggested I only got the job because there was some kind of conspiracy-'

'I never-'

'No. Stop making excuses. When you suggested that I only got the job because of alleged ties Daredevil, rather than merit - that hurt, Matt. I've been nothing but supportive of you the last few months." He took a deep breath. "I would have thought you'd extend me the same courtesy.'

Matt hung his head, ashamed. There was no point refuting that point. It was completely and utterly true. 

'I n-never meant to imply you weren't deserving of that job, Foggy," Matt stuttered. "You're a brilliant lawyer, we both know that. I... I just felt that something was not quite right.'

'And instead of asking me directly, you ended up creating some kind of conspiracy theory. Not everything's a conspiracy, Matt.'

They both sat in silence for a while, and Matt could hear small huffs from Foggy as he hesitated to say what he wanted to say.

"So do you want to know why I got the job?"

Matt looked surprised. "You got the job because you're a good lawyer."

"Well yes, but you were right about the superhuman connection."

"Huh?"

"I was hired because the firm wants to specialise in superhuman clients, vigilantes and the like. They were impressed with my handling of the Punisher case. Hogarth told me they needed someone not afraid to take on ‘riskier, non-traditional cases’. She’s really into codewords. She calls vigilantes ‘people with complexities’."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do they want to specialise? I mean, do they have ulterior motives?"

Foggy gave a huff of frustration, and Matt quickly added, "I know your intentions are pure, but I don't trust Hogarth."

"I don't really either," Foggy said with a sigh. "And I don't know what her intentions are really. But hey, between your research at Columbia and my job at the law firm that specialises in superhumans, I think it might actually benefit you. Better the devil you know. If Hogarth is up to anything, you'll be among the first to find out."

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt said. "I don't deserve such a good friend."

"Pfft. You do. I don't know what it is, Murdock, but despite all your faults I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend time with."

Matt ducked his head, embarrassed, and Foggy added, “don’t get me wrong though. I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” Matt said meekly.

Foggy changed the topic. "So what are we going to do about Fisk?"

"We?"

"Yeah, we. We both put Fisk in jail. We both represented Frank. We're both being threatened. We do this together. This is not your solo project, Matt. Not anymore."

"I can't let him hurt you."

"You're right. And I won't let him hurt you, or me, or Karen or any of our friends. Hell, I don't even want your sculptures to come to harm."

"You can't tell Karen," Matt hissed.

"What did we just talk about, Matt? No more secrets." Foggy pulled out his phone to call Karen and Matt threw himself across the table, hitting Foggy's hand from below. The phone was thrown into the air and Matt caught it easily. Foggy crossed his arms. "Really Matt? You're one of the most skilled orators I know and yet you're resorting to childish actions like this instead of just talking it out?"

"Let's talk it out then."

"Why don't you want to tell Karen?"

"I don't want to worry her."

Foggy sighed overdramatically. "Buddy, I hate to tell you but she's already on high alert. I don't think you could surprise her anymore. And she needs to know her life has been threatened. You _need_ to tell her. Not tomorrow, not next week, now."

"I'm going to protect her," Matt said stubbornly.

"No you're not. You can't. You can't be there all the time. You weren't there when she was shot at, or when she was kidnapped by the Blacksmith."

“You mean the Yakuza.”

“No, it happened before the Yakuza kidnapping.”

" _What_?!"

"You know about the Blacksmith, right?"

"Yeah, but _kidnapped_? Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't Karen tell me?"

"She didn't want to be protected, Matt. Besides, you were too busy with Elektra at the time doing your Ninja stuff. You can't do everything, protect everyone... we all need help, even you." Foggy held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

"Kidnapped..." Matt said softly to himself as he slid the phone across the table. How could he miss something so major as a kidnapping?

Foggy hesitated for a moment, then said, "Frank Castle saved her."

"Frank?" Matt said in an even smaller voice.

"I'm going to text her. Is it okay if she comes here?"

"What- oh, yeah. That's fine," Matt murmured, still distracted.

Foggy tapped out the message, then stretched with a moan. "Do you have any beer?"

"Yeah, in the fridge. Is now the right time?"

"I just found out a threat was made on my life. Twice. In fact, do you have anything stronger?"

Matt still looked lost in his own little world and didn't respond, so Foggy helped himself to the fridge, sliding a second beer across to Matt.

"I thought you could peel off the beer label instead of wearing a hole in your table."

Matt hadn't even noticed that he'd scratched away a corner chunk of his table throughout their conversation.

"Look Matt, I know you care about us. If anything, you care _too_ much-” Matt looked a little peeved “-but remember what Karen and I have both told you multiple times in the past: you are not alone. We've taken Fisk down once. We'll do it again."

Matt started picking at the beer bottle label and Foggy watched in silence, reflecting on Matt’s bizarre coping strategies. He really was a contradictory bastard. They made their way through a couple of bottles each before Karen turned up.

“Shit, Matt! What happened?” she asked, looking at Matt’s face to the empties on the table and back at Matt. “Foggy?” she appealed, desperate for an answer.

"Sit down," Foggy ordered as she helped herself to a beer from the fridge.

Matt went over the events once more while Karen listened with the occasional, "shit, Matt" thrown in at key points. When he finished, Karen just sat there in quiet contemplation.

"What are you thinking?" Matt eventually asked, not wanting to suggest a reaction.

"Well, it's not exactly surprising, is it?"

"What?!" Matt and Foggy responded concurrently.

"He's a dangerous man. He's not afraid to kill his enemies or anyone who gets in his way. Of course he wants us out of the picture."

"You're not scared?" Matt asked.

"Of course I am," she said derisively. "But I've been scared for more than a year. This doesn't change much."

Foggy looked at Karen with disbelief, but decided not to push it. "So what's our game plan? Karen, do you want to stay with one of us for awhile?"

"What? You think because I'm a woman, I can't look after myself?"

"That's not what I meant," Foggy said, backtracking.

"Well, what did you mean?"

"Safety in numbers and all that."

"Maybe _you_ should stay with Matt then," she snapped.

"Stop it, guys," Matt interrupted. "It’s my fault, so I'll handle it."

"No!" Karen and Foggy both yelled in unison and Matt drew back, shocked by their outburst.

Karen continued, "look, Matt, if you want to investigate, we'll do it together."

"Karen, it's not safe."

"This again?” Karen rolled her eyes. “If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for me. I don't want any more patriarchal bullshit. You went behind my back with _my_ art forgery case. You're not going to do that again."

Foggy looked at Matt. "You said Vanessa bought the sculptures and that Kate is friends with Vanessa. We have a lead."

"Do you think Kate's in on it?" Karen asked.

Matt shook his head. "She wasn't lying when she told me about the purchase. I think they're genuinely friends. Are you still dating Kate’s assistant, Mia?”

“Maria,” Foggy corrected. “No, we never really dated, and before you ask, I’m not going to ask her about the purchase.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work-” Matt started and Foggy waved him off.

"Well, we'll start with Kate and Vanessa," Karen concluded, and Matt reluctantly agreed.

"We'll get through this," Foggy repeated, trying his best to sound confident. " _Together._ "

* * *

 

Unbeknown to Foggy and Karen, once they'd left Matt's that evening, he slipped into his Daredevil costume and made his way to Fisk's apartment complex. With any luck, Vanessa would now be the sole resident. The building was new and impossible to scale, but he easily climbed up to the top of an adjacent building and listened out for Vanessa's unforgettable voice.

"...I know you don't want to, Mama, but I need you to stay with Roland and Anne for awhile. Just until the threat has passed." There was a long pause and Matt realised Vanessa was on the phone. He strained, but couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. "Yeah, I'm okay.... yes.... yes... just promise me you'll use that other phone I gave you though.... I can't.... okay.... let me know when you get there.... love you too.... bye, Mama."

He sat there for another couple of hours, listening to Vanessa pour herself a glass of something – wine probably – until the apartment fell silent. She'd evidently gone to sleep. He couldn't hear anyone else in the apartment, which meant that she wasn't being guarded inside the apartment at least, but he didn't want to risk breaking into the building at this point in time. He needed to figure out who was threatening Vanessa and her family before he made a move.


	14. Have you ever fallen for a dangerous woman?

The next day, Matt's research work was interrupted by a cryptic text message from Karen.

_"I found something. Can we meet after work? 7pm your place?"_

He'd been trying to ignore the previous evening's events in an attempt to finish the summary on Luke Cage's interactions with the law. He'd been working on it all week and was becoming increasingly frustrated with the police department's attempt to block his enquiries. He couldn't afford to be distracted. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, and dictated a simple " _yes_ " response before turning his attention back to the document.

He soon received another message from Yasmin.

_“What are you up to tonight? There’s a gig on at the Mote if you want to join me.”_

Matt couldn’t work out how people juggle normal working lives and dating. He answered in the negative and after turning his phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode, he returned to his work.

The next time he was interrupted it was Professor Douglas, who pointed out that the sun was setting and that while he appreciated the commitment, Matt should probably head home for the day. Matt drew his fingers over his watch, panicked a little when he realised he was due to meet Karen in five minutes and exited with a quick thanks and an apology.

Matt had just exited the building when a voice called out, "Matthew Murdock."

He turned in the direction of her voice - Vanessa Marianna's voice.

"My name is Vanessa Marianna. We met at my gallery last year, do you remember?"

"I do." Matt didn't smile or put on the charm this time, and Vanessa's heart beat sped up a little at Matt's crisp response. "What do you want, Vanessa?" There was no time for niceties.

"Can we go somewhere more private? I need to talk to you about something… it’s a little sensitive."

"I'd rather not. I'm in a bit of a hurry." Matt made to keep walking and Vanessa grabbed his arm. He stopped and slowly pulled her hand away, still stone-faced.

"Please, Matthew. I need your help."

Matt's lip curled. " _You_ need _my_ help?"

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "It's about my- Fisk, Wilson Fisk."

"And why would you need my help with Fisk?" Matt spat out the last word.

"Because he's threatened you. He's-"

Matt made to interrupt, but Vanessa pleaded, "just listen. He's threatened you, he's threatened your friends, he's threatened my family. I don't trust what he's going to do next. I need a lawyer – you - to help me." Vanessa's heartbeat was racing with nerves, but there was no spike that suggested a lie. The threats to her family would at least partially explain the phone call last night.

"There are plenty of lawyers in New York. Google one," Matt snapped. “But of course you must know that if you’re accosting me here.”

"Kate, my - your dealer – mentioned it.” Matt looked livid, but Vanessa continued regardless. “Look, you know what's at stake here. You know him, Matthew. You know what he’s capable of."

Matt squirmed a little at her use of his first name once more. He remembered the way she flirted back with him at the gallery, the way she pronounced his name with an equal emphasis on each syllable, the way she linked arms - all in the name of securing a purchase.

"Even if I wanted to – and I don't - I'm not even practicing anymore."

"Will you give me the opportunity to explain at least? You might change your mind."

“Give me your phone number.”

“You’ll hear me out?”

“I didn’t say that. Give me your number and I’ll consider your request.”

“Here’s my card,” she said, not acknowledging the fact he wouldn’t be able to read the numbers on the shiny laminated card. He didn’t say anything though - he’d just get someone else to read it for him later.

Matt gave a curt nod. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a prior commitment I’m late for.”

Matt waited until he was out of earshot before dialling Karen’s number.

“Matt where are you? I’m at your apartment. I was getting worried.”

“Sorry, I turned my phone off.”

“I sent you half a dozen text messages.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m coming now. I’m just leaving Columbia. I lost track of time.”

“You’re still at Columbia? It’ll take you forever to get down here in this traffic.”

“I’ll walk.”

“I’ll meet you half way.”

Matt sighed. “Fine.”

“There’s a small bar called Mallie’s near the museum. Do you reckon you could find it with your superpowers?”

Matt whined, “they’re not superpowers, Karen. And besides, I can use the maps app on my phone… like everybody else.”

“Oh, yeah… of course.”

* * *

 

“You what?!” Karen whisper yelled when Matt told her about Vanessa. “You just walked away? Didn’t you want to know more?”

Of course he wanted to know more. But Matt knew he needed to gather more information before he reengaged. What’s more, he wanted to do it alone. He tried to look nonchalant as he shrugged and took another swig of his beer.

“Ergh. I know what you're doing, Matt. It’s not going to work. Ring her right now and get her to meet us.” She leaned over to grab Vanessa’s business card from Matt’s hand. “You’re going to shred that if you play with it any longer. Give it to me. I’ll read out the number for you.”

“Us? No way. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Matt…” Karen growled. “We’ve gone over this. I’m helping whether you like it or not, and to imply that I’m not qualified or able to help because I don’t have a penis-“

“That’s not-”

“Yes, that’s what you’re implying. You know I’m more than capable of investigating crime. You said it yourself.”

“But you got kidnapped,” Matt blurted out.

Karen drew her breath in sharply, and Matt heard her heart rate quicken. “How do you know about that,” she hissed.

“Foggy.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That the Blacksmith kidnapped you.”

Karen breathed deeply and her heart rate slowed once more.

“Karen? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” she said cryptically.

“What happened that you don’t want me to know?”

“Firstly, do I need to remind you that _you_ got kidnapped by Frank? Secondly, don’t listen to my heartbeat. It’s creepy. And lastly, can we just get back to the issue at hand please? Our respective kidnapping tales can wait.”

On this point, Matt knew she was right.

“Call her and get us to meet us now,” Karen insisted. “Before anything can happen to us or her.”

“Okay,” he grumbled. “But if anything happens - if it’s a trick or it gets violent, you have to promise me that you’ll run. You might be able to break into an empty building-”

“-but you have the superior kick-ass skills. I know, I know…”

Matt grabbed his phone. “Read out the number for me.”

* * *

 

Vanessa agreed to meet in the nearby park. Matt had assured Karen that it was better to meet there than in an enclosed space or an alleyway where he couldn’t be sure people would not overhear. At least in the park, he could better isolate and track heartbeats.

As they waited by the park’s central monument, Karen shivered slightly.

“Do you want my jacket?” Matt asked.

“No, I’m not cold.”

Matt didn’t know how to respond. He knew that any suggestion that she leave would not go down well, so they just stood there, silent, waiting. Eventually Matt whispered, “someone’s coming. My 9 o’clock” and Karen turned to see a lone figure - Vanessa - in the distance, walking towards the monument.

Vanessa hesitated a little when she saw Karen. “I only wanted to talk to you, Matthew,” she whispered.

“You have both of us," he responded curtly. "Feel free to walk away if you want.”

“I recognise you from one of the sculptures-” Vanessa said to Karen.

“Why did you buy my sculptures?” Matt interrupted.

“I didn’t want to – that’s not to say that they aren’t good -”

“Why did you buy my sculptures?” Matt repeated, his words slower and deeper – a warning.

“Wilson - he ordered me to.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t tell me why.”

Matt frowned at her lack of helpfulness. “You have an idea though.” It was half-question, half-statement.

“Y-yes. I suspected he was going to use them against you, but how I don’t know.”

“Do you often run…” Matt paused, searching for the right word “…errands for him?”

“Well yes. I’m his partner. But I don’t – can’t be.”

Matt tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“I told you. He threatened my family. I thought it was his enemies at first - it’s happened before – he has many... as you know – but I just discovered that he...” Vanessa breathed deeply "...Wilson gave the order"

“Why?” Matt insisted.

“It’s complicated,” Vanessa said softly.

“Tell me or I’m leaving.” He made to walk away.

“I didn’t want to buy those sculptures for him. And I told him so. He got angry and accused me of working with you.”

“And that’s why you came to me?”

“That and your involvement in his arrest. You're a good man, Matthew. I trust you.” Matt could tell she was telling the truth, which only confused him further. Why would she trust the man who represented the informant responsible for putting her fiancé in prison?

Karen piped up. “You must have known who Fisk was from the beginning. Why now? Why do you want to leave him now… over a sculpture?”

Matt felt a little stung at the derision with which Karen pronounced the word ‘sculpture.’

“It’s not just the physical objects,” Vanessa explained. “The sculptures represent something greater than themselves. Art shouldn’t be used to wage war. It shouldn’t be used to threaten and intimidate.”

Karen snorted in disbelief. “So you’re okay with people being threatened with guns, but you draw the line at art?”

“I thought I knew what I was getting into... at first. I fooled myself into thinking it was okay, that what Wilson was doing was for the greater good. I got swept up in the romance-”

Karen snorted again. “You call blowing up half the city romantic?”

“No, but I think I managed to compartmentalise things. Ignore the uglier side of Wilson and his schemes. Then I saw those sculptures. They’re such beautiful pieces. They’re so… human. They reminded me that you and your friends are normal humans with emotions and lives and families and friends - that you’re not the monsters Wilson made you out to be. I – I just can’t do it anymore.”

“My heart bleeds,” Karen muttered sarcastically.

“Have you ever fallen for a dangerous woman or man?” Vanessa said more insistently. “Have you ever fallen for someone who you knew was dangerous, who influenced you in ways that you could not even comprehend, who revealed another side of you, who created an endorphin rush just from being around them? Do you remember how exhilarated they made you feel? The pull in two directions?”

Matt heard Karen’s heartbeat change ever so slightly. Was she thinking of Frank? Vanessa’s words certainly hit a nerve with Matt. He remembered his final words to Elektra: _“Where ever you run, I’ll run with you. This is a part of me and you’re the only one who gets it. Without this, I’m not alive, not really… I’m free with you, like with no one else…”_

“Just say you are telling the truth,” Matt finally said. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want to help you put Wilson away for life.”

Karen narrowed her eyes. “The person you love? You want to put your boyfriend-”

“-fiancé,” Vanessa corrected, much to Karen and Matt’s surprise.

“-fiancé away for life?”

“He has threatened my family. I don’t trust him. But I don’t know what to do. He has corrupted the entire prison system from the inside.”

“We know,” Karen said.

“I could find evidence,” Vanessa added. “You could help me and my family start a new life.”

“You want to enter witness protection,” Matt surmised.

“Can you help?”

“We’ll be in touch,” Matt said crisply after a brief pause. “Come on Karen.” He felt for her arm, and half-led her away.

“Please, Matthew,” Vanessa called after them.

As they hurried away, Karen whispered. “What are we going to do?”

“Help her.”

“But you said-”

“I need to double check something first.”

“Are you going out in your suit?”

When Matt didn’t say anything, Karen repeated the question.

“Wait for me at my apartment until I return,” he said brusquely. Before she could protest, he added, “unless you feel that you can scale the side of a twenty storey building in under a minute.”

“I’ll do some research then. How long will you be?”

“Not sure. Order takeout if you’d like.”

Karen snorted a little at that last suggestion. It seemed so domestic for Daredevil to be suggesting Thai takeaway for dinner. “I’m not happy about you going out,” she grumbled, “but okay.”

She thought for a minute then said, “well done for collaborating by the way.”

“I collaborate,” he said in a tone of mock offense. “I’m working on a sound artwork with Yasmin at the moment, for instance.”

Karen punched him playfully in the arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Oof,” he said dramatically at the blow. “Hitting a blind man. You’re terrible, Karen Page.”

They caught a cab back to Matt's place in silence. Karen noticed he seemed oddly energised by the events of the evening. It was in line with her theory that the driving force behind Matt’s Daredevil activities was more than just protecting people and fighting petty criminals. He liked a puzzle - a mystery to solve.

Karen collapsed on the couch and watched as Matt noiselessly disappeared into his bedroom to change into his suit. She was tempted to ask about the costume. Who made it? Could it deflect a knife? Did it have a zipper? Was it machine washable? Why the horns? However, Matt didn't seem like he was in a talking mood.

After ten minutes, Karen realised Matt was taking an extraordinarily long time changing for someone who just implied he could scale the outside of a twenty storey building in under a minute. She called his name a couple of times and when he didn’t answer, she slid the door aside and saw that the bedroom was now empty. Her eyes drifted from his work clothes atop the laundry basket to the slightly ajar window. He'd evidently disappeared out the window rather than his usual rooftop exit, presumably to avoid her. A little hurt, Karen left the sliding door open so as to keep tabs on all entrance/exit points, and settled onto the couch with her phone and notepad.

She'd taken a dozen pages of notes by the time Matt returned to his apartment, this time using the rooftop stairs. Karen tried to act casual, but she knew he could hear the jump in her heartbeat at the sight of Matthew Murdock in his Daredevil costume. After all, this was the first time she'd seen him fully kitted up since she'd confirmed his true identity. He puffed a little as he made his way down the stairs. Before he could disappear into his bedroom again, Karen interrupted, "Matt, wait-"

Matt stopped in his tracks, self-conscious, and shifted his attention to Karen. She made her way across the room and slowly raised her hand to his shoulder, feeling along the joins in the fabric. The night’s activities had left him quite musky - or perhaps it was the overworked (and/or underwashed) suit. She could see a drop of sweat fall from the bottom of the mask down the edge of his face. She lightly touched its path, making Matt twitch slightly in response. She leaned into him, hand on his cheek. She was just about to meet his lips when he pulled away, whispering, "Karen, I can't." Before she had the chance to respond, he retreated to his bedroom, sliding the door behind him.

Within a minute, she could hear the shower turn on. Embarrassed, she slipped out of his apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an aside, am I the only one who watches Daredevil and thinks 'that suit must smell so bad by now' and 'is it machine washable'?


	15. it's going to be an interesting ride

Matt knew his diversionary shower was probably not the best way to cope with Karen's advances, but he hoped that it would all be swept under the rug by the time he was finished. He did not expect an empty apartment though. He tried to call her, desperate to discuss the Vanessa situation, but it went through to voicemail every time. He left a frustrated message, avoiding mentioning anything specific to the case just in case it was intercepted: " _damn it, Karen. Pick up. If you want to do this together, we need to talk_." How the tables had turned: he of all people was begging _Karen_ to talk.

He was still buzzing from the night's events, so he sat down with his laptop in an attempt to do some background research - no doubt doubling up on Karen's own work. Overwhelmed and unfocussed, he eventually gave up and collapsed in bed, phone still in hand.

The next morning, Karen was still not answering. Matt grumpily left another message, and then arranged a meeting with Foggy after work to discuss their next move, begging him to try and contact Karen.

Being Friday, it was Matt's designated 'art day.' He rang Yasmin to confirm their sound installation planning date, and was relieved that at least one of his friends was looking forward to seeing him. The collaborative project was well underway. They'd found an old warehouse they could use for the one-night-only event, and were due for a site visit that afternoon.

Although Matt had not told Yasmin about his super senses, she had already deduced his ability to use echolocation to understand spaces – a skill well within normal human capabilities and one used by many blind people. She made him feel quite normal in fact. Consequently, when it came to mapping out the acoustic elements of the warehouse, he didn't feel like he had to downplay his reading of the space through sound, even if he wasn't telling her the true extent of his hearing capacity. He wondered if their relationship would last to the point where he'd have to confess his true abilities, not to mention his alter ego. The idea scared him.

Despite Yasmin's promise to teach Matt technical sound editing skills, they'd quickly discovered that advanced sound editing programs were paradoxically not very accessible to blind users. Matt got quite upset and angry, but Yasmin was quick to point out that every collaboration drew on the individual strengths of each artist: her skills as a sound technician were matched by Matt’s ability to read spaces through sound and, in turn, activate spaces through sound composition.

They’d arranged to rent a warehouse adjacent to the one they visited not long earlier for the sound art festival. It was smaller and lacked the upper levels of its neighbour (it had also once been home to a small ring of drug dealers that Daredevil had shut down more than a year ago – but Matt didn’t divulge that particular information to Yasmin). They walked around the building, taking turns to call or clap in certain parts of the cavernous warehouse before setting up a series of small speakers to experiment with their own digital soundtrack.

They’d been begging friends and colleagues for the loan of quality speakers for the event, and had made a few attempts at fundraising. The warehouse rental price was reduced to almost nothing after Matt had pointed out to the owner that it could count as a tax write-off. While business partners, Matt and Foggy had often argued about pro bono work - which was at least an opt-in activity for the lawyers – but Matt was quickly gaining an understanding of the less-than-optional unpaid labour within the arts. Outside the commercial sphere it was almost assumed that artists would go unpaid, with the burden of fundraising placed upon the creators. He'd planned to talk to Kate about further fundraising for the event, but following the Vanessa revelation, he was not sure whether he wanted Kate involved anymore for both her safety and his sanity.

He tried to put the Vanessa issue out of his mind as he stood in the middle of the warehouse, listening to the sounds bouncing off the various objects and materials within the space. Each material had its own acoustic signature, and he was calculating the best arrangement for the speakers and other objects within the space. After almost half an hour of listening, he and Yasmin started to map out their proposed speaker arrangement using Matt's malleable paper so that it was easily readable for both artists. After they had a complete draft, Yasmin couldn't stand Matt's obvious anxiety anymore and asked, "what's up?"

"Nothing," Matt said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Something's got you antsy. What is it?"

"Just work stuff." Matt rationalised that it was at least half-true as he was once involved in the Fisk case on a professional basis.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Yasmin didn't respond, so Matt clarified: "it's confidential. Legally I can't.... and besides, I'm enjoying the distraction.” He gestured at the sound map. “This is good for me." That much was true. Two days ago, he'd vowed to Foggy and Karen that he was never making art again. He’d never expected his art to be misappropriated as weaponry, and wanted to avoid any and all opportunities of misuse again. For a guy that spent his nights fighting criminals, Matt was sometimes surprisingly risk averse. But since his vow to Foggy and Karen, he'd realised that art had become an integral part of his life. In very least, he could still make art that he couldn’t sell, such as his sound installation.

"Do you – have you ever turned down a buyer – an art buyer?" Matt stuttered.

"Well, most of my art isn't exactly sellable," Yasmin pointed out.

"But can you say 'no' to a buyer?"

"I guess. I don't know why you'd want to at this stage of your career though."

"So famous artists turn down buyers?"

"Yeah, all the time - particularly if they aren't very prolific. They want their work to go to the right collector or some such bullshit,” she said with a sneer. “Why are you asking? Did someone you don't like buy your work?" She laughed a little at the suggestion.

"Mmm... yeah, kind of."

"Oh. I guess you don't have much control if you're not selling it directly – if you're going through a gallery. What happened? Is that why you're anxious?"

"No," Matt lied. "But I think I might stop making sellable art. Stick to sound art instead of drawing."

"You really do think in absolutes, don't you," Yasmin teased. "You know you can still draw things. Just don't sell them. Drawing makes you happy, right?"

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts. Just tread your own path. You don't need the money, right? You have other paid work."

"Yeah. It covers my rent and basic expenses."

"Well there you go. Problem solved. Be a professional unpaid artist."

Matt sighed.

"Who was it?" Yasmin asked in a faux-conspiratorial whisper.

"Who was what?"

"The buyer?"

"What? Oh, um, just another gallerist," Matt mumbled, running his hands across the plan as a distraction.

"And that's bad because...?"

Matt had an odd compulsion to tell her the whole story, but instead he settled for a half-truth. "I just don't think her intentions are right. I mean, the sculptures are quite personal – as you know – and I didn't realise how close I felt towards them until they were gone. It sounds silly."

"It's not silly. I know what you mean. Even with non-figurative art I feel quite possessive about my work. I can't imagine how it must feel when they're modelled on your friends. Art comes from the soul, Matt." She touched his chest affectionately. "It's very personal."

"Yeah," Matt said quietly, relieved that someone understood - that he wasn't alone. "Thank you."

* * *

 

As soon as Matt got home, he took out his drawing materials and spread out on the kitchen table. He couldn’t give this up. Yasmin was right. He spent a good couple of hours creating a detailed and obsessively patterned drawing, then realising Foggy and (hopefully) Karen were due to arrive any minute to discuss the Vanessa case, he quickly packed everything into a box to hide in his bedroom closet. It was best not to take chances. Sure enough, Foggy and Karen turned up just as Matt was folding his manky old college-era sweatpants over the box.

In a way, it seemed just like the old days when the three Murdock & Nelson colleagues would be working on cases till midnight, buried in a nest of paperwork and takeout. However, Karen was unusually quiet bar her summary of her research to date. Foggy could sense that something was not quite right between his two friends. He watched her critically as she doodled on the edge of her notebook only semi-engaged. She’d directed her entire findings so far to Foggy, and wouldn’t even look in Matt’s direction even though her gaze would never be met anyway.

"So let's go over what we know so far," Foggy said after Karen and Matt had summarised the events of the previous days.

"Vanessa is being threatened," Karen started.

" _Allegedly_ threatened. We don't have any proof yet," Foggy corrected.

"Um, I kind of have proof. It's inadmissible though," Matt said.

"Last night?" Karen asked.

"The night before," he corrected.

Foggy sighed in disbelief. "You mean the night you promised you wouldn't play lone soldier?"

"Do you want to know what I found or not?" Matt snapped. They didn't say anything so he continued. "Vanessa was on the phone to her mother, telling her to stay with friends and use a burner phone."

"It might have been for show," Foggy pointed out.

"For whom? There was no one else in the apartment."

"And you know this because...?"

"I was listening from an adjacent building."

Foggy said wearily, "Is there anything else you've not told us, Matt?"

Matt said softly, "I want the sculptures back." Karen laughed and Matt looked hurt.

"Oh you're serious," she said.

"Yeah."

Foggy cleared his throat. "So, here's what we have so far: Vanessa is _allegedly_ being threatened by her fiancé, Wilson Fisk. His enemies have threatened her before. He is currently running the prison. He has threatened my life twice, and yours once, Karen. And Vanessa wants her help getting witness protection in exchange for digging up dirt on Fisk, but you haven't committed to helping yet. Anything else?"

"The sculptures," Matt reminded him.

Foggy said wearily, "and Matt wants his sculptures back.” He added the point to his notebook. “Next on the agenda: what are we going to do about it? I mean, I don't want to take it on; and Matt, in your current job you're not exactly able to either."

"Please Foggy."

Foggy tapped his pen against the edge of the table, and Matt held his breath. Foggy finally said, "Hogarth _did_ promise that I could develop my own client base when she hired me…"

"Thank you," Matt breathed, relieved that Foggy was so easily convinced.

"I already knew this would be the outcome,” Foggy said wryly. “But we'll meet her together, Matt. She must know that we worked on the Fisk case together, right. She said she wanted you specifically though. Do you know why?"

"The sculptures I guess. And my visit to Fisk." Matt fidgeted and picked at the side of the table.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Karen muttered.

"True," Foggy said. "So do you think she'd come into my office where there’ll be witnesses, or are we going to meet in a dark alleyway?" Karen laughed a little.

"Finally! I'd been wondering where Karen went," Foggy said without subtlety. "I have to ask: what's going on between you two?"

Matt ignored the last question and said, "as Karen pointed out, Vanessa isn't in the position to negotiate. I'll get in contact with her tomorrow and see if she'll visit you at work. It's not without risk, but maybe she could come up with a cover story. She could need help buying a new gallery space or something."

“Apart from the fact that I’m a defence lawyer, that’s a great idea,” Foggy said sarcastically.

“I don’t know. Make something up then.”

“You’re suing her for wrongful purchase,” Foggy joked. “Hey, if we do this, we'll make one of the conditions of helping her that she returns the sculptures." Foggy thought for a second then added, " _without_ financial compensation." Matt ducked his head and smiled.

Foggy continued, "now if you're happy with that can you please stop whittling away the side of your table with your fingernails? It makes me nervous." He got up and grabbed three beers from the fridge. "Here," he said, sliding the beer across the table. "Play with the label instead."

"I thought you said we wouldn't drink tonight," Karen reminded him, taking a bottle from Foggy. "Give our livers a rest, concentrate on the case with a clear head et cetera."

"Well, we’ve decided our next move. If I’m going to take on yet another dangerous case, I at least deserve a beer. Plus Matt's table will soon be reduced to a pile of sawdust if I don't give him the beer label substitute."

Matt huffed, but Foggy spotted a slight upturn on his mouth.

"That's a great idea for a performance artwork, Foggy. Thanks."

“Is everything okay with you two?” Foggy blurted out.

Karen was the first to talk. “Yeah, we just had a big night last night. It was a bit emotional – there was stuff dug up from the past.” It was a vague explanation, but true. She leaned over and touched Matt’s hand affectionately. “It’s great to have such good friends.” Relieved, Matt gave Karen a small smile in thanks.

“… even if they constantly lead to trouble,” Foggy added. “There’s never a dull moment being friends with you two.” He turned to Matt. “Now tell me about this performance artwork you’ve got planned.”

“Oh, it’s not- I’m not performing. I told you before, it’s an immersive environment - a kind of sound installation.”

“Cool,” Karen said. “That sounds like your kind of art.”

“Yeah, it is. We mapped out the building’s acoustics today. It’s an amazing space.” Matt decided not to mention that it also still smelled a bit like heroin to his nose.

“Will it be completely dark like the one at MoMA?” Foggy asked.

“No, we’ll have a lot of objects in there for the sound to bounce off. It’ll be kind of like a maze, with speakers dotted around the place so the sound changes as you move through the space. There’ll be enough light for you to see once your eyes adjust. We don’t want people getting lost or tripping. It seems unfair that I should be the only one who can ‘see’ in there,” Matt said with a chuckle.

“I can just see it now: the blind man rescuing lost people from the dark maze. Daredevil without the costume,” Foggy mused. “Speaking of which, it must be getting quite serious with Yasmin. This is the longest you’ve ever been with one woman. Does that mean the confession’s nearly due?”

“Nooooo… not for awhile. She knows I can navigate spaces using echolocation, but not about my super enhanced senses.” Matt switched back to the table, picking of a large splinter of pine. He said in a forced casual tone, “and on the other point, there was Elektra.”

“Somehow I don’t count her,” Foggy muttered.

Karen piped up, intrigued. “Why? I keep hearing about this mysterious Elektra and I’m intrigued. Who was she?”

Matt looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think-”

But Foggy interrupted. “She was beautiful.”

“Yeah, I saw her in Matt’s bed, don’t forget,” Karen said bluntly.

“Oh. Yeah. Well, you know that much then,” Foggy noted. “Matt was absolutely smitten. He went from absolute nerd - studying every spare minute of the day and acing every assessment - to not even turning up to class. He almost got kicked out of school, in fact.”

“She was very… distracting,” Matt said introspectively.

“I once came back to our dorm in the middle of the day to find Matt tied to his bed, gagged, and completely naked. I’m never going to unsee that.”

“No way!” Karen yelped, eyes wide. “Matt?!”

“We thought you were in class all day,” Matt said innocently, but his face broke into a slight smirk.

“What did you do?” Karen asked, completely intrigued.

“Well, I untied him of course. He was struggling-”

“I wasn’t struggling. I was trying to tell you I was fine.”

“Yeah, it was hard to hear that with all the grunting and drooling-”

“-to tell you I had it under control - that it was completely consensual. ”

Foggy laughed. “I was more freaked out than you.”

Matt explained to Karen. “Elektra left me like that as a challenge. I was meant to get out of the restraints.”

“At the time I thought it was bullshit,” Foggy said, “but now it kind of makes sense.”

“I would have extracted myself,” Matt pointed out. “I’d done it before.”

“You’d done that before? In _our shared_ room? Oh god, I don’t know how to cope with that information.”

“Mostly elsewhere. Elektra didn’t approve of the dorms.”

Foggy explained to Karen, “she was super rich. Daughter of a diplomat… And I’m pretty sure she was into all sorts of illegal shit.”

“I’m not going to disagree with you on that last point,” Matt said seriously. He thought for a moment, then said,“ a few months ago I found out that she was originally sent by Stick.”

“Sent to college to seduce you?”

“Yeah. I was pissed off, of course. But so was Stick because we both fell in love.”

“He was the one who told you to cut off all ties, wasn’t he?” Karen deduced.

Matt picked at the bottle label in silence.

She added softly, “I’m – we’re glad you didn’t listen, Matt… in the end, at least.”

“No excuses. I’m still mad with you.” But Foggy’s voice betrayed his feelings otherwise.

“So how are things at _The Bulletin_?” Matt asked Karen, keen to change the topic.

“Well, I have the scoop of the century now thanks to the Vanessa saga.” Karen looked at her watch, “which reminds me, I have work in the morning which is in… five hours time.” She started packing up her notes.

Foggy stretched with a groan and a yawn. “I’ve got to go too. Let’s hope it goes our way so Karen has her cover story,” Foggy said and Karen gave him a withering look, which he ignored. “Buckle up, it’s going to be an interesting ride.”

 


	16. Red

**_Two months later…_ **

 

Karen strode into Josie's and plonked herself down next to Matt and Foggy. “Guess what’s going to be on the front page tomorrow?”

“Let me guess... a true romance about a turtle and a kitten?” Foggy teased, sliding a beer in her direction.

Karen hit him for good luck.

"Hey, I'll take the beer back if you're not careful," Foggy said in mock hurt.

Matt piped up, _“_ _Kim Kardashian_ has a new beau?”

“How do you know about _Kim Kardashian_?” Karen said in disbelief.

Matt waved her off. “I hear things," he said with a cheeky grin. "What about... the full dirt on the Fisk expose?”

“Correct!”

“Are you going to flatter us all by calling us heroes again?” Matt said with a sly grin.

“ _What is it, to be a hero? Look in the mirror and you'll know_ ,” quoted Foggy in his best theatre voice.

Matt snorted and joined in, “ _Look into your own eyes and tell me you are not heroic, that you have not endured, or suffered... or lost the things you care about most. And yet, here you are... a survivor of Hell's Kitchen_...”

“Oh you’re both so funny,” Karen said sarcastically, giving them a withering look. “That was my first piece. Not all of us are geniuses at everything from the get go.”

Matt chuckled. “Sorry, Karen. I enjoy your writing really.”

“I can’t believe how clichéd that first story was,” Karen said blushing. “I can’t believe my editor _printed_ it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Foggy said. “We were just teasing. I’m sure the Fisk story will be great. I can’t believe how much evidence they got from Vanessa in just a couple of months, not to mention the number of confessions from corrupt guards and officials.”

“Well, the threads ran deep and wide,” Matt pointed out. “Plus the corruption was so widespread that it wasn’t hard to get people to talk.”

“Thank fuck for overconfident crooks,” Foggy said. “It makes our jobs a lot easier, that’s for sure.”

“Karen?” Matt said curiously. "You want to say something." He could hear her picking away at the label and now regretted teasing her.

“I didn’t ask before because of the story, but I need to know now. How much ‘encouragement’ did the crooked guards need to confess?”

Foggy choked on his beer. “Best not to ask.”

Matt nodded his head. “Foggy’s right.”

Karen took a swig of her beer then said far too innocently, “you know, I assumed when this whole Vanessa thing happened that Nelson & Murdock would get back together.”

Foggy leapt up. “Bathroom.”

Putting down his half-finished beer, Matt muttered, “I’ll get us another round," as he fled the table.

“Guys…” Karen looked utterly exasperated. She watched Matt charming a woman sitting at the bar – a classic Murdock diversionary tactic. She rolled her eyes. Foggy also seemed to take longer than necessary in the bathroom. By the time they returned to the table, Karen was just about ready to leave.

Matt sat the beers on the table. He forced a laugh. “You know it’s the funniest thing-”

“Matt?”

“We don’t want to talk about it, Karen.”

“Well maybe I do.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. “Can’t we just have a nice night out celebrating the fall of Fisk - _again_ \- without you bringing up-”

“-the taboo topic?”

“Exactly.”

Matt said softly, “do you want there to be a Nelson & Murdock again, Karen?”

“Yeah, yeah- but maybe- maybe not – maybe I wouldn’t be the secretary.”

“You enjoy being a journalist,” Matt said plainly.

“Yeah, but if I could be a journalist with you as my bosses, that would be pretty ace. What about you, Matt?”

“Well, yeah, maybe.” He tipped his head in Foggy’s direction. “It’s his decision though.”

“That’s not fair, Matt. You’re the one that wanted us to dissolve.”

“For your safety. I didn’t want you hurt because of an association with me.”

“This again?”

“Admit it, it wasn’t working.”

“True that.”

“Would you though? Get back with me?” Matt said it in a semi-joking tone, but Foggy and Karen could sense a kind of nervous vulnerability in his body language and voice.

Foggy tried to think of a delicate way of putting it. “No, I don’t think so. Not in the near future. I love you, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think you’re going to be happy with a quote unquote normal job in the near future.”

“Yeah, not now. But maybe -" Matt hesitated, then said quickly "-I’m pretty happy at Columbia. I’ve had a couple of job offers, including one from the DA.”

“Noooo….” Karen said.

“Yeah, but I’m not really interested- not right at this moment anyway. Columbia’s suggested I apply for a PhD scholarship, but it’s not as well paid as my research position, which I love. The work is interesting and I feel like I’m directly influencing things that will impact me personally.”

“Which is a huuuuuge conflict of interest,” Foggy chimed in.

Matt smiled wryly.

"And you have your art," Foggy pointed out.

"The Blind Association has just asked me to make a tactile artwork for their forecourt."

"Woah that's great."

"Yeah, and a bit scary. It's a big project," Matt said seriously.

"Cough- Man Without Fear –cough," Foggy joked.

Matt gave him a withering expression.

"I’m throwing that facial expression back at you FYI. So you're over your insistence that you're no longer going to sell your art?"

"This is different," Mat said stubbornly.

"Yeah, for a man with infinite exceptions," Foggy teased.

"Hey, are you two coming to my sound installation next Saturday?" Matt needed to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.

"Pfft, do you really need to ask? I wouldn't miss it for the world, buddy."

 

* * *

 

With Vanessa safely in witness protection and Fisk in isolation surrounded by specially vetted guards, Matt finally got his sculptures back as agreed. He gave the sculpture of the random volunteer to Josie, and gave Fran the one in her image. Claire, Foggy and Karen all refused to take theirs, saying that it was a little creepy having their own head blankly gazing back at them. Matt was pleased. He’d offered out of politeness and a sense of duty – after all, the sculptures had been used against the sitters once already and he didn't want to cause further trouble - but as he'd told Yasmin, he had great affection for the works. He’d put a lot of love into their creation and they were more than just clay objects.

Foggy offered to install a special shelf in his living room for the three sculptures. There were some things that Matt couldn't do even with his special senses - operating a screamingly loud drill was one of them. Matt walked to the end of the block while Foggy completed the drilling.

"What do you think?" Foggy said after the sculptures were lined up on the new shelf.

"I think I'm a lucky guy to have my best friends around me all the time," Matt said seriously.

"Ergh, you’re so soppy, Murdock."

“And that’s why I’ve replaced you with a mute version that doesn’t talk back,” Matt said with a smirk.

 

* * *

 

Matt, Yasmin and a group of their strongest friends spent the following Friday moving their massive geometric sculptures into the warehouse. They'd made the objects out of cheap composite wood and old pallets, painting them grey to match the walls and floor of the warehouse. The placement of these climbable objects created a maze-like experience and also directed the sound waves.

They also needed to hang a series of angled fabric sheets by ropes strung from the beams, but by the time they'd arranged the wooden blocks, it was near 10pm and they were sweaty, exhausted and ravenous. It was decided that the hanging elements could wait until the next day. The fabric elements would look a bit like the sails on a boat, Yasmin had noted, and Matt subsequently pointed out the link between the installation’s waterfront location and the sailboat reference. Yasmin had laughed, "Nice one. We'll put that in the artist statement," and Matt basked in her praise. He was still worried that someone was going to ‘discover’ that he was a fraud – that he wasn’t really an artist, let alone something as cool as a sound artist - so Yasmin’s words of encouragement always meant more than she probably knew.

As a thank you to their helpers, they ordered a heap of pizzas and beer, which they ate sitting high on top of one of the larger geometric stacks. The volunteers excused themselves one by one, leaving Matt and Yasmin alone in their work-in-progress immersive environment. They were both a bit wired post-install so instead of heading home to bed, they turned their soundtrack on and climbed on top of the central stack with a couple of the installation sheets, lying down just to listen and enjoy without the distraction of other people. They held hands and Yasmin rubbed her fingers along Matt's calloused and scarred hands.

"One day you're going to tell me how you got all your scars, you know."

Matt sighed. "I know." Part of him was screaming _'this is the time, this is the time. Tell her!_ ' But if the confession went down as badly as the other two, finishing the installation the next day would be a bit awkward. He was sick of keeping secrets, but then he also knew from his research at Columbia just how difficult his life would be if his alter ego were exposed. One step at a time, he told himself.

Matt swallowed and said a little hoarsely, "you know how I can hear better than most people?"

"Yeah, you're like a bat. Oh, I don’t mean - not blind like a-"

Matt rolled his eyes. Not this again. "That's a myth. Bats aren't blind."

"Oh. I bet you get that a lot."

"You have no idea," Matt moaned.

"You were saying – about your hearing?"

"Yeah, well it's not just due to honing my echolocation skills – I mean, that's part of it. I trained really hard as a kid to develop those skills. But those chemicals that blinded me as a child – did I tell you?"

"Yeah, you mentioned you were in a car accident."

"Well there were chemicals on the truck. Radioactive chemicals. It got in my eyes, taking my sight, but at the same time enhancing all my other senses."

"As in taste, touch, smell?"

"Yeah." This was going well so far. Matt wondered if he should stop there for now.

"Smell... that must make living in New York City pretty intense at times."

Matt laughed. "For sure. But I love this city. I can’t imagine living anywhere else."

“Tell me more about these senses,” she said, rolling onto her side and examining his expression in the low light.

Matt explained the things he could hear, smell, taste, touch, and described the way he experienced the world. He left out the bit where he dressed up in horns and beat up bad guys. One thing at a time, he repeated to himself.

When he was finished, Yasmin squeezed his hand affectionately. "You're a special man, Matthew Murdock," she said. “But I already knew that."

"Thank you for not freaking out."

"Why would I freak out? Is that what I _should_ be doing?" she snorted.

"Dunno," Matt mumbled.

"Do many people know?"

"A few."

"But you don't want to tell people because-?"

"Well, for a start when I did tell someone as a child they didn't believe me. In fact, they were quite cruel about it. I learned to keep it a secret, and it's just remained that way. It's hard to explain and if I don't need to then I guess – I dunno..." He tried to figure out why it was so important to keep his enhanced senses a secret. There was Daredevil, but that came long after he had known not to tell people. Stick never explicitly told him not to tell anyone, but their entire training program was a secret, which was in turn indelibly linked to his abilities.

"And this is the point where you tell me about the scars, right?" Yasmin could see an instant change in Matt. His muscles tensed, and his breathing rhythm altered in response to the question. It evidently had something to do with his senses, and it made him extraordinarily uncomfortable. He'd said people were cruel to him as a child, but the scars were newer than that. "You're a mystery wrapped in a mystery, you know that?" She leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on his temple. "I don't need to know, but if you ever want to tell me I'm all ears."

"Thanks." Relieved, Matt closed his eyes and listened to Yasmin's breathing slow as she eventually fell asleep. 'A mystery wrapped in a mystery', she'd said. Nothing seemed to faze her. He pulled one of the sheets up over their chests, and allowed himself to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

They woke up the next morning stiff and cold from sleeping on the exposed wooden blocks. "Coffee..." Yasmin grumbled and Matt grunted in agreement. Neither of them were morning people.

After the obligatory coffee, they got back to work on the installation. The installation of the ‘sails’ (as they now called them) was pretty basic: throw a weighted rope over the high beams and hope for success. Yasmin was nervously coiling the rope in her hands when Matt said, "may I?"

"Throw the rope over the beam?" Yasmin said in disbelief.

"I told you last night about my senses. Trust me." She silently handed Matt the rope. He seemed outrageously confident for someone who couldn't even see the beam.

"Um, do you need me to point you in the direction of the beam?"

"No need," Matt smirked.

"O-kay." Yasmin sat down on one of the nearby cubes to watch, smiling at Matt's swagger.

Matt threw the rope into the air and it sailed over the beam with only inches to spare.

"Lucky throw," Yasmin teased, but she suspected that there was really nothing lucky about it. "Here's another one."

"Is this the one for the cross beam?" He asked, threading his way effortlessly through the maze to the beam intersection. Without fanfare, he quickly threw the rope over the beam, once again clearing it by only a few inches.

"You sure it's _just_ super senses? Because that's pretty impressive."

“Most people just ask me if I'm really blind.”

“I doubt you'd tell me the truth about your senses and then leave out the bit where you're not really blind. Besides, it seems like a lot of effort to pretend to be blind when you're not.”

Yasmin handed Matt the next rope. “This one's for the far beam.”

Matt took a run up and leaped onto the top of a high stack, throwing the rope as he jumped again. The rope looped over the beam and he caught the other side in mid-air, swinging forward before letting go. He performed a neat somersault mid-air and landed at the edge of the warehouse.

“Show-off,” Yasmin said, hands on hips.

Matt laughed. “Oh come on, you're not a teensy bit impressed?”

Yasmin joined him on the other side of the room. She leaned on his shoulder and murmured, “you weren't worried that the beam would snap? It looks pretty rusty.”

“Not at all. I can hear the vibrations. Its integrity is fine-”

"-and if you fell, you'd have another scar for your collection," she said, rubbing the site of the massive scar on his stomach.

Matt kissed the crown of her head. “I _will_ tell you. Give me time.”

“Speaking of time... we have eight hours until we have to be back here showered and dressed and ready to greet our audience. Let's get this installation finished.”

Matt's ability to swing between beams turned out to be a much-needed time-saver. He could catch and pin the fabric expertly, and they ended up varying the design slightly as a result.

Once finished, they climbed back onto the top of the tallest construction once again, and surveyed their work. They could feel the light vibrations from the soundtrack beneath their feet. Their immersive environment had turned out even better than they'd hoped. However, they were both disgustingly sweaty and dirty. They were still dressed in yesterday's (now smelly) clothes and desperately needing a shower. Yasmin made a dig about his sense of smell, which Matt ignored, putting his nose against her shoulder and telling her she smelled like roses to his nose.

“You're so soppy,” she laughed.

“You too? Why does everyone call me soppy?”

As they left the warehouse to shower and pretty up, Yasmin handed him a parcel. "Here, wear this. It's time you breached that grey/blue/black colour palette."

Matt looked uncomfortable. "What is it?"

"Another waistcoat. You look good in them." She reached over and rubbed his stomach once again. "It shows off your figure."

"And the colour?"

"Oh, that's-"

"You know I have to take your word for it anyway."

"Your crazy senses can't recognise colour?”

"Not unless it smells like a dye I can recognise."

Yasmin raised her eyebrows. "Okay, it's red – a colour that suits you.” Matt looked like he was going to protest, so she added, “and I'm going to wear a red dress."

"Red," Matt repeated quietly. Then he said more brightly, "I used to like red."

 

* * *

 

Matt rang Foggy on the way home, requesting that he come around for a drink before the event.

"Why?" Foggy asked. I would have thought you'd be hanging out with Yasmin.

"I need to ask you something, um, about my clothes."

"You're finally going to wear one of my ties?"

Matt laughed. "I think they suit you better."

Foggy turned up just as Matt was buttoning up the waistcoat. He whistled at the sight. "Gee you're getting brave in your old age."

Matt furrowed his brow. "It looks bad?"

"No, it's just that apart from your ties, you've only ever owned one item of red clothing before," Foggy sniggered.

"So it _is_ red."

"Yeah – can I grab a beer?"

Matt rubbed his hands over the fabric. "The surface is quite rough, like paint."

"Yeah, it looks like the fabric’s been hand painted. It’s got a bit of a DIY look." Foggy handed Matt a beer.

"Help me choose a tie?" Matt asked.

Foggy automatically reached for the novelty ties, but Matt gently pushed him towards the conservative end. "One step at a time, Foggy."

"Yeah, getting you out of variations-on-grey was hard enough. You must really like this girl."

"I told her about my senses," Matt blurted out.

Foggy baulked. "Already?"

"Yeah, but not, er-"

"Not Daredevil?"

"Yeah, one step at a time – again."

Foggy grabbed a thin red tie from Matt's collection and held it against his chest. "Red on red?" Matt screwed up his face.

"Too much red?"

Matt shrugged.

"Okay, what about black?"

Matt shrugged again.

"Are you sure I can't interest you in this tie with the red sunglasses? They match your real life glasses exactly. It was the find of the century."

"Black is fine," Matt said wryly, taking the tie from Foggy, running his fingers over the specially attached label to check that it was indeed black.

"Tsk. Still don't trust me, Murdock?"

Matt laughed and dragged Foggy back into the living room.

 

* * *

 

Matt walked back to the warehouse early to double check the sound levels before it opened to the public. He self-consciously touched the waistcoat every now and again. He couldn't remember ever seeing a red waistcoat, but then he couldn't really remember what red looked like anyway. It was just an abstract concept to him. The waistcoat was for Yasmin, he kept reminding himself.

One of Yasmin's friends was setting up the temporary bar when he arrived, and he grabbed a beer and climbed back to the top of a stack, listening to the sound waves as they bounced off the various objects around him. He'd created something that he could appreciate like nothing else. He heard Yasmin's heartbeat before she even walked through the warehouse door and waved down at her as she arrived. She laughed at his newfound confidence and scaled the pile, taking a sip of Matt's beer as she plonked herself down next to him.

"We made this," she said, smiling. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back down to ground level. "Come on, let's do a loop and check the sound levels."

People soon started to trickle in, inevitably heading to the bar before wandering through the work. "I might just grab my cane," Matt whispered as more and more people arrived.

"But you know the space." Yasmin whispered back.

"Yeah, but others don't. Believe me, it's easier."

Jessica accosted him just as he was retrieving his cane from behind the bar. "Murdock," she drawled. "You pulled it off."

Matt couldn't work out if she was surprised or not.

"Yeah, thanks for helping."

Jessica shrugged, "you still owe me three bottles." Matt reached behind the bar to grab her a bottle of beer. She crossed her arms and said in an unimpressed tone, "-of bourbon.”

"I know. This one's on the house."

Jessica snatched it and swigged half the bottle in one go.

Claire and Luke also wandered over to say hi, and again, Matt grabbed them beers as a thanks for helping the previous day.

Luke smiled at Jessica. "I didn't expect to see you here, Jones."

Jessica held her bottle up in cheers. "Yeah, well, I only came for the free beer, _Cage_."

Matt could hear the lie and smiled.

"Ergh," Jessica said when she saw the smile, realising that Matt had caught her out.

Yasmin walked over with a guy who smelled like a mixture of incense and a high-end lemongrass-scented shampoo. A trust fund kid who wants to be a hippy, Matt quickly assessed.

"Matt, Luke, Claire, Jessica, this is Danny," Yasmin said. "We went to school together then he took off to India or somewhere to 'find himself’."

"That's not exactly true, Yas," he pointed out, but Yasmin waved him off.

Matt couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something odd about Danny. He was completely still and calm, and yet there was an odd energy beneath the facade.

"Dan, can I get you a beer?" Yasmin asked, grabbing herself one. "Or does it interrupt your qi?"

Jessica snickered.

Danny didn't seem fazed. "Again, you misrepresent me. But I'd love a beer."

Matt could hear Foggy's familiar heartbeat enter the building, and he sighed in relief. It was the perfect excuse to escape the awkward group. He snatched another couple of beers as he left the bar area, and greeted Foggy with an outstretched bottle.

"Thanks," Foggy said. "You did it, man!" He held hand up for the obligatory fist pump, and Matt met his fist with a grin.

Foggy lowered his voice. "Do you want to tell me what you're doing with Jessica Jones and Luke Cage? Is that wise, given your... y'know?"

"They helped move all the structural elements yesterday. Did you know they're unbelievably strong?" Matt smirked.

"Yeah, but aren't you worried people will connect you?"

"Well, firstly, you invited Jessica"

"No I didn’t"

"Yes you did. And Luke is going out with Claire."

" _Really?_!" Foggy loved gossip.

"And I also had to contact them through my work at Columbia," Matt said more seriously.

Foggy stared at Matt, confused.

"Plausible deniability, Foggy."

"How do you know Daniel Rand?"

"Who?"

"The guy who's talking to Yasmin."

"Oh, I don't. He knows Yasmin from when they were kids. How do _you_ know him?"

"He's one of Hogarth's richest clients,” Foggy explained, staring at the group. “Well, his family was."

"That explains the shampoo," Matt muttered. "What do you mean by _was_?"

"His parents died in mysterious circumstances overseas and he disappeared for ages. He only just returned. No one recognised him and Hogarth went through this whole thing trying to confirm his identity."

"Did she use Jessica?"

"Yeah, of course. Why?"

"No reason." Matt tried to catch the conversation between Danny and co. He could hear Jessica screw open a hipflask and pour a large quantity of spirit into her empty beer bottle. There was no meaningful conversation between the Danny and Jessica. It was odd. Why would he and Jessica pretend they didn't know each other?

Foggy grabbed Matt's arm. "Come on, buddy, lead me round your work. It's pretty dark in here."

They wound their way slowly through the maze. At one point, Matt said, “just here… listen.”

Foggy stopped. “What am I listening to?”

“Now walk,” Matt ordered.

“Huh?” Foggy walked slowly forward.

“It changes when people walk through this area. Neat huh?”

“Do you have lasers or something?” Foggy said, looking around for a red beam.

“No, nothing as sophisticated as that. There are sensors under our feet. Can you feel the mat?”

“Yeah.”

“Yasmin hacked one of those kid’s toys – it’s a large plastic mat that looks like a piano or something and you jump on it to play. She kind of fiddled with the electronics.”

“Skills,” Foggy said with deep admiration.

“Yeah, I’m glad one of us could do it. Soldering intricate circuit boards is not really my forte.”

“You happy with the overall thing?”

“Yeah. There’s a little bit of me that’s worried one of Fisk’s cronies will appear tonight to destroy my trust in art completely,” Matt laughed.

“Matthew,” a voice called from the darkness, and both Matt and Foggy froze.

“Shit,” Foggy breathed.

“It’s just Kate,” Matt whispered.

“Oh phew. I heard your full name and thought the worst, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Matt whispered.

Kate slowly weaved her way through the maze structure and gave Matt a kiss on each cheek. “I spotted a white stripe in the darkness,” she said.

Matt smiled. “Yes, the cane’s often as much for me as everyone else. It’s good for keeping cats at bay too.”

“As a cat person I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” she quipped. “This is a wonderful work. I hope you’re pleased.”

“Yeah, we were a little concerned that it was too big a project, but we managed to enlist a lot of friends to help with the structural side of things. Thank you very much for helping us promote the event by the way.”

“Not a problem. It was only an email.” Kate took a deep breath. “Plus it wasn’t entirely selfless – I’m still a little hopeful that you’ll change your mind about having another show at my gallery.”

Foggy saw a slight cringe cross Matt’s face, but it quickly turned into one of his stellar impress-all-the-ladies smiles. Foggy knew Matt could hear his almost inaudible groan – a fact confirmed only seconds later when Matt lightly kicked his foot.

“Let me get you a drink,” Matt said to Kate, oozing charm. He held out his arm for her. “Foggy, do you want another?”

“I think I’m going to explore for a bit, thanks.”

He watched as Kate and Matt walked off, Kate briefing him on some of the VIP art people that she’d invited along tonight. “I’ll introduce you to Alfred Woolfe. He writes for _Frieze, Artforum, Art Monthly_ , and so on. Oh and there are a few philanthropists who you should meet. Jane Castle is always looking to support ephemeral art projects like this. She has her own foundation. She said she’d come tonight…”

What Matt thought would be a low-key, fun, and hip event turned into a night of schmoozing after Kate got involved. He was grateful that she’d taken such an interest in the work and his career, even though he wasn’t formally represented by her gallery. He was introduced to a couple of art critics who drilled him on the work and his art practice. He didn’t even _understand_ Alfred Woolfe’s first question, and quickly excused himself to fetch his collaborator, saying it was important that the critic got both artists’ opinions. Yasmin answered the questions intelligently and with ease, of course. Matt held onto her arm the whole time, glad that at least one of them had knowledge of contemporary art theory. Alfred asked Matt a question about sound art and blindness, causing him to freeze up completely. Yasmin whispered, “it’s a strength, remember. Just say what you feel. That stuff about acoustic signatures is really interesting.”

Matt took a deep breath. “People want art made by a blind person to _look_ like art made by a blind person. Even with a sound installation, it’s still framed by my blindness – as evidenced by your question. There is no doubt that the way I listen to the world around me is different to sighted people, and this in turn has influenced the way I approach all sound art, whether it be creating my own or experiencing another artist’s work. But don’t forget this is a collaboration...”

* * *

 

The crowd changed significantly around 10pm. The people remaining were largely onto their fourth or fifth beer, and were dotted around the various objects, chatting and generally having a pretty good time.

Matt, Foggy, Yasmin, Luke and Claire had found a comfortable nook between two high points and were chatting about the difference between music and sound art, performance art and theatre, and other such weird distinctions. Foggy suddenly became aware of Karen’s absence. “Have you seen Karen tonight?”

“No, I thought she was coming with you.”

“Shit. Do you want to call her?”

Matt frowned. “You think something’s happened?”

Only seconds later, Foggy spotted Karen’s head bobbing between some of the cubes near the entrance. “Phew.”

Matt called her anyway. “Go straight ahead and turn left. Pick up a beer. Tell them Matt’s buying… yes… just follow my instructions, damn it…. Yeah, sorry…. Okay, now go straight ahead… yes, of course I know where you are. Don’t doubt me….” Claire and Foggy giggled at Matt’s evident frustration. “-now left, straight…. Right… and… hi!”

Karen spotted the five figures in the darkness. “Gee, you’ve done well with the mood lighting, guys,” she joked as she climbed up to their nook.

“Hello to you too,” said Foggy sarcastically.

“Sorry for the delay. Work called.”

“It’s probably better to experience it now anyway. It’s quieter.”

The group chatted and ploughed through a good many more beers. Then at midnight, Matt and Yasmin kicked everyone out.

They flicked the sound switch and locked up the warehouse. Matt went to walk home, but Yasmin grabbed him. “Come sit by the water for a bit. Unwind.”

They wandered to the water’s edge and flopped down on a couple of crates, overtired and overwhelmed. "We have to pull all this down tomorrow,” Yasmin groaned.

Matt echoed her groan. "Let's not think about it just now. I'm tired and quite tipsy." He leaned his head against hers. _It’s time_ , he thought to himself. He sat up straight, took a deep breath and said, "I need to tell you something."

"More special powers?" Yasmin joked.

"I don't have special powers."

"Puh-lease. Your senses are total powers." She turned to face him. "Do you want to know mine?"

"Your-?"

"You know how I said red looks good on you?"

"Yeah?" Matt said a little apprehensively.

"That's because to me, you glow red." She looked at Matt’s face, trying to interpret his expression. She continued, "-most of the time, that is. Like everyone, you change when you experience different emotions, when you're happy or sad or angry, when you tell a lie..."

"You can tell when I'm lying?"

"Well, I could probably tell without the colours to be honest. You're a terrible liar."

"So everyone keeps saying," Matt grumbled. "You know, I can pick lies too. Well, most of the time.” He hesitated. “I am - I can hear people's heartbeats."

"That'll keep us an honest couple then," Yasmin laughed.

"So how does this thing colour thing work? Do people show up differently?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm still learning. It's always been, um, there, but lately I've been developing, learning more about it." She paused. "I invited – introduced you to Danny tonight because he's been training me – training with me, at least. And after what you told me last night, I felt that perhaps you should join us. If you want," she added hurriedly. "Oh and I didn't tell him about your senses. That's yours to tell."

"Is Danny gifted, er – in a similar way to you-?"

"-and you.” Yasmin poked him teasingly. “Again, it's not my place to say. All I can tell you is that when we were kids I told him about the colours, and even though it sounded a bit crazy to him, he believed me. I can’t really tell you where he disappeared to either, but when he returned recently – dressed like a hippy and harping on about meditation – he brought it up again. He encouraged me to develop my spectral visions – that’s what he calls it… it’s a bit of a wanky name… I don’t really know what to call it. He encouraged me to develop it so that I can put it to good use. I think you could too."

Matt laughed.

"What?" Yasmin looked equally offended and worried.

"I was so scared. I don't feel scared anymore." He said half to himself.

"This is about your scars, isn't it?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"I see a particular colour at the fringe of your colour array when it comes up in conversation. Or when any kind of violent crime comes up -"

"I'm Daredevil," Matt spat out. There. It was done.

Yasmin laughed, more at his method of delivery than anything else. She thought for a moment then said "ohhh" as things started clicking into place. "Well, I guess you're already putting those power to good use then."

"Some people don't see it that way. You- you don't mind?" Matt fiddled anxiously with the sleeve of his shirt, worried that her easy acceptance was too good to be true.

"I don't want to see you get any more scars, if that's what you mean."

"What I do – my methods. I don't usually get such a blasé reaction. Well, the other two times I've told people at least."

She put her hand affectionately on his thigh. "As I said last night, Matt, I've always known you're special. And it all makes quite a lot of sense now – your new 'friends,' the scars, your aura...."

"You glow red too." It was a statement. Matt didn't need to even ask.

"I do."

And so they sat there on the edge of the Hudson, two artists glowing red in the night. Happy, honest, and (‘worse, they’re’) in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran away from me a little! This is only my second fiction and I'm still finding my groove. The first one I wrote and posted in full on this site, but I noticed a lot of people post chapter by chapter, so I thought I'd give it a go (after I had my outline drawn up). It's definitely more challenging because I always want to go back and revise, but it was worth it for all the lovely encouraging comments along the way.
> 
> On that note, please let me know what you think of this story. 
> 
> I'm also about to start posting one of three stories I've been working on on the side. If you've ever wondered what Matt would do if he was kidnapped and forced to perform for aliens in the greatest circus on earth then check out The Earth Arena.


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